Infinity
by The Immaterial Girl
Summary: The search for a new artifact reveals Isabelle Flannery, the mother of Vaughn's child--a child no one knew about. Her presence leads to the uncovering of a startling Rambaldi secret that may tie Sydney, Vaughn, and Isabelle to him more than they want.
1. Prelude: Indulgence

**Infinity**

**Genre:** _A little bit of everything (Action, Comedy, Drama, Romance)_

**Pairing:** _Vaughn/Lauren,__ possible Weiss/OC, eventual Sydney/Vaughn_

**Disclaimer:** _The obvious characters are not mine. I also wish I could take credit for creating the concept of Milo Rambaldi, but I can't! Oh well. Read on, mates._

**Prelude**

_Indulgence_

_In the ides of August…_

It was quiet in the Vaughn household on the evening of the fourteenth. There were no romantic interludes with candles and soft music planned, no social outings with friends. The two occupants of the house converged at their house, consumed a serene meal, and did a little reading (grown-up homework courtesy of the Central Intelligence Agency). Before heading to bed, they engaged in their pre-bedtime rituals which included the usual bathing procedure. Every now and again, they might shower together or she would take a bath on her own. That night, she soaked in the tub by herself, while her husband went to his study during his time alone.

Lauren and Michael Vaughn, on the surface, seemed the typical married couple, as the events of the evening had shown. They were prone to good days and bad days. Unfortunately, there had been a considerable amount of "bad" days since Vaughn had returned from Hong Kong three months previous. That was an incident he didn't want to think about. But the truth was, Vaughn had felt a bit withdrawn throughout the whole ritual of a night at home on the night of the fourteenth. His mind had been miles away. Five thousand, seven hundred eighteen miles away.

While his wife was luxuriating in the bathtub, Vaughn allowed himself to partake in an indulgence of his own.

Everyone had hidden pockets of their lives that they only brought to light when no one was around, like a worn picture whispering of the past. On the night of fourteenth, the whisper came all the way from Spain.

Vaughn moved aside his folder on the Covenant's movements in Europe, glancing guiltily at his cracked door. Judging from the sloshing sounds coming from tub and his wife's contented sighs, he knew he had a little while yet. So he opened a drawer and unearthed a nondescript manila envelope that would have not aroused suspicion in the clutter of his desk drawer, but by itself, it hinted at something clandestine.

He had fought with himself day and night ever since he had married Lauren. One day he had decided to tell her; by the end of the day, he found his mouth shut on the subject and ready to move on to something else. Either that or he had totally forgotten the whole dilemma because his mind was occupied with other problems (or one problem in particular). So here he was, married to Lauren Reed, having declared to be with her for better or for worse through sickness and health, for half a year with a secret eating a hole inside of him. A big secret.

Inside of the envelope were a letter and a sheaf of photographs and magazine clippings. The letter he could recite from memory; he left it inside the envelope, opting for the largest, glossiest photograph instead.

The person in the photograph he chose wore her hair unbound. The curly mass of mahogany brown framed a diamond shaped face. Her milky white shoulders were bared by an off-the-shoulder dress in a peach hue. Olive-green eyes as intense as his own stared at an unseen point off-camera, and the coral-shaded lips were slightly upturned at the edges, as if she were thinking of an amusing irony she shared with no one. A cream-gloved hand was placed in her lap, and as she was angled toward the viewer, she held the other gloved hand over the V exposing her chest—a sign of modesty. He always smiled when he noticed that, thinking of what her reaction could have been. She would have punched his shoulder laughingly and would have told him not to read too much into a silly picture.

He placed the picture aside and pulled one of the magazine clippings from the envelope. It touted the exploits of a Manhattan-born beauty who had taken Broadway by storm with her kaleidoscopic talent while giving a bit of background on her early life. After skimming the slightly overdone article, he pulled another photograph from the pile, one that included a younger version of him and another guy flanking her at the sides. They all wore baseball caps and huge grins. Vaughn recalled the rousing game they had just come from and smiled again. They'd made a bet, and she'd won like she always did.

An indefinite amount of time had passed when he heard the door to the bathroom open. He heard Lauren's footsteps in the bedroom, heard the pause. Quickly he slid everything into the envelope and the envelope underneath the folder at which he was supposed to be looking.

When Lauren walked into the study with her tawny hair piled on top of her head, she saw her husband poring over a file from work. He tapped a pen idly on the desktop as he read, and his brows were furrowed in concentration. He didn't look up immediately when she entered, so she went to him at the desk to get his attention.

"There you are," she said with a smile. Lauren placed a hand on his shoulder and he gazed up at her. "Still working?"

"Yeah. Just looking at some stuff for the briefing tomorrow morning." He paused as she glanced down at the desktop. One of the corners of the envelope was visible. Vaughn placed her lips on hers so that she was distracted from his desk long enough to conceal the corner. When she pulled away, a light smile curved his lips. "You smell nice. Is that new?"

Lauren beamed at the observation. It was nice that despite their times of discord that he would notice something like the scent of her body wash. Though, with her at this proximity, it was hard to miss without holding his breath. "The saleswoman at the store recommended it. Do you like it?"

"I do. Very much." Vaughn carefully closed the file folder on his desk and set it neatly in the middle of the surface. In one smooth move, he stood and kissed her on the cheek.

"You go on to bed," Vaughn told Lauren. "I'll be there in a minute."

Lauren complied and left him alone once again. After she had left the room, Vaughn exhaled heavily and collapsed in the chair. Silently he berated himself for not telling her sooner, chided himself for not finding the balls to sit her down and tell her at that moment.

_I will tell her tomorrow,_ Vaughn told himself. _I will take her aside, away from work, and tell her. I can't keep this secret any longer._

Of course, a more cynical person would have recognized the fact that that was an empty vow, thought only to ensure a false sense of accomplishment. But Michael Vaughn didn't think about it any longer. If he did, he'd find that diamond-shaped face in his dreams.

[----]

Meanwhile, five thousand, seven hundred eighteen miles away, a woman watched the rising of the sun with a multi-colored blanket covering her shoulders to ward off the pre-dawn chill. She wore a sweater and jeans, but she couldn't quite ward off the cold. She was not sickly or anemic, but on the morning of the fifteenth, and only on the morning of the fifteenth, she always felt cold.

Her roommates, so to speak, were ensconced in slumber. She didn't want to rouse them; this was her time alone, and she was going to take it. She liked the tranquil peace before the day began. In her life filled with toys, cartoons, math homework, and the occasional grocery expedition, this was one of her few mature indulgences.

She wasn't a lonely woman by any means, nor did she feel crowded by the direction her life had taken or the people in it. She was content with her accomplishments and didn't regret any choices she'd made. Well, perhaps just one.

_But you let him go,_ she reminded herself. _You let him go—when you both needed each other most. And you know who to thank for that._

Yes, she did, and she thought about dancing on that person's grave…

But that would be rather vulgar of her. She had breeding, right? Her mother had taught her to turn the other cheek, to act and not react. Not to mention, she was an adult. She was above such overtures. It was all in the past, and everything was better because of it. _She _was better because of it.

So, with that thought, she brought the blanket tighter around her and headed into the house. She had a birthday cake to make.


	2. Tuesday

**Author's Note: **_Some of the events in this chapter and the next are going to resemble moments from the beginning of 3x12, Crossings.  
_

**Chapter One**

_Tuesday_

What was it exactly about Tuesday that made it absolutely unbearable?

Sydney Bristow pondered this as she made her way through the security checkpoints at the JTF Building Tuesday morning. Tuesday was the odd day of the week that could claim no thrill; it was the day after Monday, the beginning of the work week. It was right before Wednesday, the middle of the week where some of it was behind you and but the rest of it was in front of you, however you looked at it. Thursday was the last quiet day before the stimulating weekend, and Friday was the end of the work week. Saturday was devoted to the extracurriculars you wouldn't dare partake in during the week, and Sunday was a day of relaxation before it all began anew. Tuesday was the oddball day of the week, and for some unforeseen reason, she felt it more than usual today.

Sydney walked through the pen of desks housing her fellow CIA agents, passing a smile here, volleying a hello there. All the while, her eyes scanned the room looking for that one person she wanted to see and yet wanted to avoid all at the same time.

And because it was Tuesday (if it had been Monday or Wednesday, she'd have found him without incident and avoided him, and if it had been Friday or Thursday, she'd have realized that looking for him was stupid and went to her own desk instead), she'd looked up at the exact moment he looked up and their eyes met.

_Dammit!_

Sydney was not sure what had happened between her and Michael Vaughn over the past couple of weeks, but the dynamic between them had transformed. Now they could barely swap pleasantries with one another without Sydney catching the undercurrent of unease emanating from him. It was almost as if he had begun regarding her as an enemy, and a simple stare from her eyes made him uncomfortable.

The skin-bristling gaze held for a few humming moments before the voice of Eric Weiss broke through the invisible link between the former lovers.

"So are you going to just stare at him all day or are any actual words going to pass between you two?"

Sydney snapped out of it (and quite smoothly if she said so herself). She turned to Weiss with a wry smile. "Well, good morning to you, too." As she spied Lauren Reed walking toward her husband, Sydney turned to Weiss, a question on her lips. "So how did the date with the redhead go last night? Any luck?"

"Oh, Cordelia?" Weiss sighed then, a breath laden with pleasure. It seemed he had forgotten about her and Vaughn—momentarily. "Sydney, she was a pure delight. Smart, funny, gorgeous…"

"Yeah, but did you have any luck with her or not?" Sydney asked with a touch of impatience.

Weiss laughed heartily. Only Sydney would ask him such a question. Of course, such was the nature of their friendship that they could have total and utter frankness without awkwardness or anxiety. "We had a rather chaste goodnight kiss on her doorstep before exchanging farewells." Sydney's eyebrows arched. "She invited me in for a nightcap, but I refused. Well, this time."

Sydney dimpled. "And what if she asks next time? Will you take her up on it?"

Weiss did not get to answer because the happy couple walked their way. Weiss greeted his friend and his wife warmly. Sydney, meanwhile, only offered a curve of the lips as a gesture of salutation. Vaughn greeted Weiss…and Sydney as if it were an afterthought.

When they left the duo in their wake, Weiss turned to Sydney. "Oh-_kay_. So what's going on between you two?"

Sydney threw up her hands in a gesture of utter bafflement. "I don't know! I wish I knew. He doesn't talk to you? Because he certainly doesn't care to mince words with me these days."

"He hasn't said anything to me." Weiss shrugged then. "Maybe it's that time of the month."

Sydney couldn't help but chuckle at the absurd notion. "That time of the month, Weiss?"

"Maybe he and Lauren share a box of Tampax," Weiss suggested, making Sydney laugh. "There's that smile." Sydney's dimple deepened as Weiss placed his hand on her shoulder. "We'd better get to the briefing before we're late."

Sydney agreed, and together they walked into the briefing room. Lauren and Vaughn were already there, along with Marshall Flinkman, the resident mechanical genius, Marcus Dixon, their superior and the director of their division. Also in attendance was Sydney's father Jack Bristow.

Sydney sent her father a smile from across the room in a gesture of salutation. He faintly smiled back, then took his seat. Things were currently uniform for the father and daughter; the biggest upset they'd had over the past few weeks was the discovery of what had happened during the two years Sydney had been missing, and Sydney felt, for the most part, that she was recovering quite well from the shock of it all.

She sat up straight and paid attention as Dixon began the briefing.

"We've just received intel about a man named Alejandro Garza," Dixon informed his team. "Garza was suspected of having Covenant ties, but the details were never confirmed. He was also an avid follower of Rambaldi. The information we received also reveals that he is in possession of an artifact called the Globe that he has housed in a massive collection at his home in Spain. He was in negotiations to auction off the artifact when he was killed during a trip to Russia three months ago. The information we collected indicates it was an arms deal gone wrong. His body wasn't found until two weeks ago."

"Do we know what the Globe is or what it does?" This came from Lauren.

"Not as of yet. But I am pretty sure that, now that Garza is dead, that the Covenant will try to move in and confiscate the Globe." Dixon slid two file folders in Sydney and Vaughn's direction. Dread snaked up Sydney's spine as she realized that she would be accompanied by Michael Vaughn on the trip to…where were they going again?

"Sydney, Vaughn—you two are to go to Valladolid to pose as two lawyers from the firm Garza employed at his youngest daughter's birthday party," Dixon continued, as if hearing her question. "Information about your identities is in the folder along with specs for Garza's mansion." Dixon gestured to Marshall, who sat off to his right. "And now Marshall will go over the Op Tech for this mission."

While Marshall gave a rundown on the devices he'd constructed to open the vault-like quarters of Alejandro Garza's collection, including something that resembled a hanky, Sydney slid her eyes in Vaughn's direction.

Vaughn gave Marshall his attention as he went through his Op Tech briefing but something lurked in his eyes. As if he sensed her staring at him, his eyes shifted to her. His eyes flicked over her briefly, then he looked back to Marshall. When the briefing ended, Vaughn calmly rose and left the room without a backward glance.

"This is ridiculous," Sydney muttered under her breath. She stalked out of the briefing room, intending to seek out Vaughn so they could straighten this out once and for all.

Sydney strode through the agents' pen, focused only on one point: Michael Vaughn's back. With her mouth set and her brown eyes determined, the other agents merely stayed out her of her path. She'd have mowed them down otherwise.

She paused behind Vaughn, intending to spew her grievances about his none-too-subtle behavior. He was on his computer typing furiously and did not hear her approach. She fell into a faintly combative stance, feet apart, hands on hips. Her lips parted, the words she had in her head on the tip of her tongue.

They froze and died when her eyes focused on Vaughn's computer screen.

An e-mail window was up, confined to about half his screen. The message was addressed to a _mamaesperanza_ at some domain she didn't recognize. Her sharp eyes spied the words on the screen as her stunned brain tried to pick them apart and find some meaning behind them.

_This arrangement is unfair… Keeping me from what I obviously deserve is not only hurting me, but her…_

"What are you doing?" Sydney inquired before she could stop herself.

Vaughn minimized the window and spun around in surprise. Now, on another day, Michael Vaughn would have been able to think fast on his feet and come up with a dynamite excuse for composing a personal e-mail of this nature to someone…who wasn't Lauren. Or at least he would have been able to come up with some compelling indignation.

But it was Tuesday. So of course his reasoning skills were shot.

"I…" He tried to cover speechlessness but his heart was thumping in his throat and his mouth was dry. Sydney just stared at him warily. "This is not the best time…"

At that moment, Lauren came onto the scene, the clicking of her high heels filling Sydney with a bit of exasperation. _And of all the moments…_ she thought.

"Hello, darling," Lauren greeted her husband. Some of Vaughn's wariness abated—only fractionally because, after greeting him, his wife focused on his former girlfriend with something resembling…_camaraderie?_ It was disconcerting. "You know, I was thinking, Sydney, perhaps you and I could get together one of these evenings for some dinner."

"Um, sure," Sydney agreed a bit absently. "We'll have to set a time and place." She glanced down at her watch. An out. A trite and transparent one, but quite effective. She smiled apologetically at the duo, looking pointedly at Vaughn. "If you would excuse me, I have to go and pack for the trip."

With that, Sydney walked away smoothly as Vaughn inwardly kicked himself. Damn Tuesday.

[----]

After Sydney left, Vaughn raised irritated eyes to Lauren. Since Sydney had walked away and left him with his emotions swirling dangerously, Vaughn found himself taking out on Lauren before he could stop himself. "And what was that all about?"

Lauren looked at him with innocence edged with confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Suggesting a dinner date with Sydney." When Lauren pursed her lips together, he continued. "We see her all the time at work; I think that's enough."

"I just want to make things better between us, after all," Lauren explained, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Remember when she first came back and we were at each other's throats? Would you rather have it that way, Michael?"

Vaughn sighed. Lauren was right. Not to mention, her heart was in the right place. She was just attempting to make a strange situation better. Who could blame her?

"You have a point," Vaughn told her. "I…I'm being silly." He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "You have my blessing to be friends with Sydney if you want." He glanced at his watch. "I have to go home and pack for the trip. I'll see you later, okay?"

Lauren exchanged goodbyes with her husband and watched him walk away. Anyone paying cursory attention to her expression would have seen a faint smile that indicated that she thought her husband was silly sometimes, but she would miss him while he was away. She was the typical loving wife.

But something else lurked in the depths of her light eyes that would have been noticed at a closer look. Something dangerous.


	3. Misled

**Chapter Two**

_Misled_

On the plane to Valladolid, Sydney studied the file on her alias for the mission. She was posing as the British Catherine Little, and Vaughn was her co-worker Jefferson Ferrin. They were both lawyers at a powerful international firm who handled anything from criminal law to probate law. Garza employed their pricey services without batting an eyelash as they had saved him from legal trouble many times. His second wife had called upon them for help with contesting some of the terms of Garza's will, so their presence at the party would not seem circumspect.

Sydney looked up from the file at that moment to study Vaughn. He sat across from her reading a book and so far he hadn't said that much to her. She could sense a slight unwillingness to be with her—or what she took as such—emanating from him. Sydney didn't like it. Was it because of the incident with the e-mail earlier that day? She wasn't sure. The thought of it filled her with bemusement; what was the arrangement and what was the thing that Vaughn was being kept from but deserved?

_There're probably a million possibilities,_ Sydney mused. _But you're not going to get anywhere inquiring him like it's the Spanish Inquisition. The best thing to do is to be casual, polite._

Conversationally, she asked, "Did you get to read the file on the mission?"

"Of course I read the file," Vaughn replied abruptly.

Sydney was perturbed by his tone and searched her brain for a clue as to what could have prompted his tone of voice. Sydney shifted in her seat, trying to find the right words to break the silence that had fallen like a pall between them.

Finally, she remarked meaningfully, forgetting her earlier thought about being casual and polite, "I hope you don't expect me to keep it from Lauren if you're having an affair."

Vaughn's eyes traveled to hers, flashed. "I am not having an affair. I would never cheat on my wife. I thought you knew me better than that."

"Sometimes I wonder," Sydney retorted, earning a fierce look from Vaughn. "So then, who were you composing that e-mail to?"

"Just an old friend," Vaughn responded tersely. "Nothing you should worry about."

At that, Vaughn went back to his book. Sydney placed the file aside and leaned forward. It was time to clear the air once and for all. They had space and opportunity and damned if Sydney wasn't going to use it.

"I am tired of pretending that nothing is wrong between us," Sydney began.

"What are you talking about?" Vaughn asked with barely feigned confusion that sounded suspiciously like defensiveness. "There's nothing wrong."

"You have barely spoken to me in weeks," Sydney countered. "Every time I look at you it's almost as if someone's ramming hot sticks in your eyes. If you have a problem with me, let's get it out in the open now."

"I don't have a problem with you, Sydney. What I do have a problem with is trying to pretend that everything can be as it was before. It can't be."

"I'm not asking for that!" Sydney snapped out. "I don't want that as much as you don't. Yes, I want things to be normal. But after what has happened, I am well aware that they will never quite be the same." Sydney paused a beat, tilted her head a bit. "Maybe we can't work together anymore."

Something stirred in Vaughn's eyes at the notion but he said nothing. When he didn't provide a rebuttal for her last comment, Sydney fell back into the chair, unsettled. Mouth set, she picked up the file and tried to think of the mission. She tried to ignore the sting because if she didn't, she would forget the job. And right now, the job was her life.

[----]

The scene at the Garza mansion was festive; laughter of children drifted from the backyard and mingled with the strumming of a Spanish guitar. Sydney and Vaughn skirted past the security that Garza had left to protect his property and family after dropping the names of their supposed employers. They searched Sydney's big black purse—or Catherine Little's purse to be precise—but found a slew of over-the-counter meds, makeup, a pack of tissues, tampons, a handkerchief with Catherine Little's initials monogrammed into them, and a little gift for the birthday girl. They saw nothing suspicious, but Vaughn figured that they perhaps were put off by the tampons.

They found the person they were looking for taking presents from the guests and placing them on the table behind her. Delia Garza was despondently beautiful in a stylishly cut sundress. Raven hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and she was unadorned except for her wedding ring and band. She clasped hands and thanked guests for their condolences and gifts for her daughter, her ice-blue eyes glimmering with unshed tears at the mention of her late husband.

When they approached her, she turned away from the person she was talking to and walked toward them. "You must be from the firm," she observed, holding out a hand. "I'm Delia Garza."

Vaughn pretended to be surprised and looked down at himself. "Oh. I suppose these blasted suits gave it away. The name's Jefferson Ferrin," Vaughn introduced himself and shook Delia's hand. She had a soft hand but a firm grip. He figured one requirement for a wife for Alejandro Garza would be inherent strength. "And this is—"

Sydney sneezed at that moment. The handkerchief she used at that moment wasn't the doctored one that Marshall had created but an exact replica of it. After wiping her nose, Sydney smiled apologetically at the widow and spoke through her stuffed nose.

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Garza," Sydney said. She held out a hand. "Catherine Little. You have a lovely house."

"Thank you." She smiled with surprise when Sydney presented a wrapped box from her cavernous purse. "Oh, is this for my daughter? You didn't have to." She placed the box on the over-laden table behind her. "I suppose we should take this to the house." She instructed a member of the family to watch things in her absence and then took Vaughn and Sydney into the house.

Delia took them up the stairs to the study. They followed, each watching the movements of Delia's back. Sydney let out a sneeze here, a cough there, to keep up the pretense of being slightly under the weather. According to the specs of the house, the study was through the third door on the left, and the collection was housed two doors down on the right. The bathroom was not too far from that and Sydney planned to use its location well.

At the doorway of Garza's study, Sydney sneezed loudly into a handkerchief.

Delia turned back to gaze at her. "Are you all right, Ms. Little?"

Sydney sniffled and blew her nose into her handkerchief. Vaughn tried not to laugh as the handkerchief blew comically out of Sydney's hand. He was supposed to be mad at her, feel nothing for her, but he couldn't help but inwardly admire her thoroughness with the cover.

"Thank you," Sydney gushed nasally as Delia handed her the kerchief. "I've had this blasted cold for three weeks and still haven't been able to shake it."

"I told you you should have just stayed home, Catherine," Vaughn chided her like a friendly co-worker would. Though, there was something in his tone that almost shattered Sydney's cover: pure, genuine concern.

_Part of the cover, that's all,_ Sydney told herself glumly, and outwardly pooh-poohed Vaughn-as-Jefferson-Ferrin's statement. "I don't take sick days, Jefferson. Something important always happens while you're gone." She gave Delia a smile. "Perhaps now we could discuss the matter at hand."

Delia opened her mouth to speak, but Sydney's watch started beeping at that moment. Sydney jumped like a sick person at the loud sound.

She inhaled and placed a hand over her heart before she spoke. "My apologies. I set an alarm to alert me to the time in which my next dose of medicine was due…"

"It's fine," Delia assured her. "The bathroom is down the hall if you need to use it."

Sydney thanked her profusely and left the room. Vaughn then turned to Delia, getting into his part of the mission: distracting her while Sydney swiped the Globe.

"My superiors have told me that you are a bit unsatisfied with your husband's will," Vaughn began.

"Alejandro died before updating his will, I'm afraid," Delia told Vaughn as she faced the window and watched her daughter playing down below. "I always told him that he wasn't invincible, but he didn't listen." The smile on her face as she turned was feeble. "Now nothing will be left to my baby to remember her father."

"How old is your daughter, Ms. Garza?" Vaughn asked. When confusion and a bit of suspicion filled her eyes, Vaughn added, "I do not know much about your late husband. The firm sent us because they could not spare one of the senior partners…" He let his sentence trail off with a tone of contrition.

"His death was rather sudden," Delia conceded. She inhaled and leaned on the desk. "My daughter is a toddler. She was the apple of Alejandro's eye." Her gaze shifted to the full length portrait over the fireplace. As resentment formed in those icy pools, Vaughn followed her stare. And got a shock.

The person in the portrait was female, and from the fullness of her face it appeared she was somewhere in her adolescent years. Her thick dark hair didn't fall that far below her shoulders, and she wore a slate-blue dress that contrasted with the maroon background and cherry wood floor. She smiled as she stared upward at an unknown object, and the eyes that glittered with happiness were almost as familiar as the lines to an old favorite song.

_No way. It_ couldn't _be._

"_Boy Scout—I'm in the collection room,"_ Sydney said in his ear and effectively snapped him back to the present. "_Searching for the artifact now."_

Garza's widow spoke then, and Vaughn tried to maintain his cover. "Even though he doted on her, I could tell that he held some of it in reserve." Delia gestured to the picture. "That's his oldest daughter. They are currently estranged. At the time of his death, he had still hoped for reconciliation. I suppose that's why he didn't change his will before he was killed."

Sydney's voice came through again. "_Boy Scout._ _Are you there? Say yes if you can hear me."_

"Yes," Vaughn began, both starting a sentence to Delia and answering Sydney at the same time, "that seems rather unfortunate, Ms. Garza, but perhaps we can do something do make sure that your daughter gets some share of your husband's estate. As a pretermitted heir, she does have some rights."

"_I've found the wooden chest," _Sydney informed Vaughn breathlessly. "_Opening it now."_

"She's got most of his collection," Delia said bitterly. "He spent nearly his whole life compiling it, and she will likely sell it off to the highest bidder without batting an eyelash."

Riding on an urge he could not suppress to defend the mysterious woman, Vaughn disagreed. "I'm sure she wouldn't be so careless. She has to have more respect for her elders than that."

Delia frowned at him. She seemed to have heard a tone in his voice that made her suspicious. She straightened and walked toward him, her head tilted. Something like fear snaked up his spine as a line of sweat tracked down it, but he remained cool on the outside. "Mr. Ferrin, is it? It seems you are trying to defend a woman you don't know. And I'm trying to figure out why."

When Sydney's flabbergasted voice came through again, it nearly shattered his calm.

"_It's not here! I repeat, the Globe is not here! Vaughn, we have to get out of here! It could be a setup!"_

Vaughn fought not to waver when he remarked to Delia, "Forgive me, Ms. Garza. It was just merely conjecture." He forced a smile. "I am lawyer after all. I'm supposed to be a master at conjecture."

Delia peered at him for what seemed like an eternity. Her ice-blue eyes were unreadable, and her expression was blank. Vaughn did not look away. He knew that she could have called for the guards if she sensed any suspicion, and they would have shot him and Sydney on the spot. So he knew that keeping her gaze was paramount.

Sydney reentered the room, then, face flushed, and shifted the dynamic between Delia and Vaughn. She sneezed again and excused herself, causing Delia to soften and momentarily forget the exchange she'd had with the so-called Jefferson Ferrin.

"Perhaps we can settle this matter another time," Delia conceded, hands clasped in front of her. "Ms. Little, you look flushed."

"I tried to take my sinus medicine and—silly old me—I choked on the water," Sydney explained with a half laugh. "I'm surprised you didn't hear me. I spent at least ten minutes coughing."

"Perhaps we should return to the hotel," Vaughn suggested, rising. "I think you would do well with a hot toddy."

"Indeed," Sydney agreed. "I am very sorry, Ms. Garza, that we couldn't get everything straightened out, but once we get back to London, we will meet with our superiors so the matter can be cleared up immediately. Your daughter will have what she deserves."

[----]

In the car on the way from the Garza mansion to the safe house, Sydney shook her head in disbelief over the outcome. She was so wrapped up in the error and trying to figure out how it occurred that she didn't notice Vaughn's silence as he drove.

"It doesn't make any sense," Sydney commented. "It was supposed to be in the wooden box." She paused thoughtfully. "Unless Garza moved it without telling anyone. Or maybe someone took it before the party…"

But Vaughn remained quiet, offering no theories to hers. The image of the painting in Garza's study came back to him, and the sting of betrayal was deep. His calm, rational side told him to not to jump to conclusions; after all, she'd had full rights to keep things from him if she'd wanted to, including her connection to a very bad man. But his emotional side wondered why she hadn't told him. Why had he had to find out like this?

Sydney placed a hand on his arm and jolted him from his reverie. "Vaughn," she said abruptly. "We're being followed."

Vaughn looked in the rearview and found a black car on the road some car lengths behind them, but it was too close for comfort. There was only the driver behind the wheel with one other passenger. Vaughn stepped on the gas and tried to speed away, but their followers merely zoomed even faster and caught them. Sydney braced herself on the door and the dash as the car rammed their back end.

"Dammit," Vaughn muttered in frustration. "Who are these people?"

"Maybe they're Garza's security," Sydney suggested hastily. "Maybe they've made us." She looked at him meaningfully with wide eyes. "And Garza was suspected of being Covenant, right?"

Vaughn couldn't entertain the possibilities—or any other ones—because their assailant rammed them again, and quite effectively; Vaughn lost control of the car, and the vehicle skidded off of the pavement as Sydney and Vaughn bounced around like marbles in a shaken jar. They collided with a tree, with the driver's side catching the brunt of it, and the momentum threw them toward the windshield. If it hadn't been for their seatbelts, they would have careened on through. The airbags deployed, adding to the force of the crash.

Sydney tried to snap to as she heard a car door slam several yards away. Footsteps got louder as they neared. She smelled smoke, and she ached everywhere. She bore down on the pain and turned to Vaughn, who looked as if he were unconscious. She had to wake him up—now.

"Vaughn," she whispered urgently. "Vaughn—wake up!"

Vaughn remained unresponsive, which filled Sydney with alarm. After a few agonizing seconds, Vaughn's eyelashes fluttered. When his lids lifted, his green eyes were dulled with confusion and pain.

"What's going on?" he mumbled.

"Accident," Sydney said quickly. "Assassins. We gotta move." She got him out of his seatbelt and got the driver's side door open just as a bullet shattered the windshield. That seemed to revive Vaughn enough that he maneuvered himself out of his seat and onto the hard ground below. With a quick spurt of strength, Vaughn pulled Sydney from the car and onto him as the passenger side door was thrown open.

They came face-to-face with the driver of the furtive black car, a dark-haired man with a bald head and dark, dark eyes. They could see the cold calculation in them as he pointed the gun at them and prepared to shoot.

What happened next seemed to come in slow motion. Vaughn shifted, rolling over slightly so that he was protecting Sydney from whatever was to come. Sydney felt, for a last act, it was quite telling. It meant that, deep down inside, that Vaughn would always care for her. She closed her eyes as the sound of gunshots filled her world. She braced herself for pain, for the end of her life.

But it never came.

Sydney's eyes snapped open. What she saw, in the frame of the open passenger side door, was nothing. Then man was gone.

She sucked in a breath to speak but Vaughn shifted again at the crunch of dry leaves underneath feet. She watched as he shot the driver's partner, a thick-haired guy with a five-o'clock shadow. The man fell to the ground with a thump, and his gun clattered to the asphalt with a metallic clang.

In the peace that ensued, Vaughn lowered his weapon and breathed heavily. The adrenaline that had been pumping through his veins was starting to ebb away, and through his growing fatigue, he didn't realize that Sydney was still huddled against him until she brought herself to a sitting position. Was it odd that he wished that she hadn't moved?

"What was that?" Sydney asked Vaughn breathlessly as air wheezed out of her lungs. The shake of Vaughn's head indicated that he didn't know either.

[----]

Back at the CIA safe house, the two agents peeled themselves out of their disguises, which were damaged after the heinous extraction process. Sydney went straight for the bathroom, holding her bleeding arm, while Vaughn took off the bloodied black blazer and stained white collared shirt and threw it aside.

Vaughn, clad now in a white undershirt and the torn black slacks, went to his laptop and powered it up. Remembering Delia's statement about Garza's oldest daughter, he searched a database for known information on the late Rambaldi aficionado and arms dealer. After a few tense moments, Garza's profile loaded with a cheerful ding, and Vaughn skipped over the vital stats to his personal information.

_**Spouse(s):**_ _Maria Celina Fuentes (m. March 1965-June 1974, deceased); Delia Maureen Tomas (m. February 1998-present)_

_**Children:**_ _Jonathan Lamar Garza de Fuentes (deceased), Isabelle Esperanza Garza de Fuentes, Graciela Rosaura Garza de Tomas—_

Whoa. Wait. All of the thoughts floating around in Vaughn's mind came to such a sudden stop that they seemed to crash and pile up like a multi-car collision. He blinked at the screen dumbfounded as the crash in his brain was cleared away, and mental traffic moved smoothly again. The implications of the information in front of him jump started his brain cells, and beginnings of thoughts came to their logical conclusions. Suddenly some of the questions that hadn't been answered made sense.

But it stung a lot that he didn't know this before now.

"The plane takes off in two hours," Sydney yelled from the bathroom. "We have to contact Dixon, fill him in that the mission has failed and that we were followed. Then we go home and figure out where to go from there."

"We can't go home yet," Vaughn said to Sydney.

There was a pause and then a crash as something fell into the sink. "What the hell do you mean, _We_ _can't go home_?!" Sydney exclaimed angrily, storming out of the bathroom in black pants and tank. The wound on her arm was bandaged. "The mission failed. Garza didn't have the Globe after all, and obviously the intel was erroneous. The only thing for us to do is to go back to Los Angeles immediately."

"We have one more stop," Vaughn told her tightly, his eyes affixed to the screen.

"And where the hell is that?"

Vaughn wordlessly turned his laptop toward her so that she could see what was on the screen. Sydney recognized the face from somewhere, but she could not recall the place or time. The woman in the ID photo was ethereally beautiful, and the blue background of the picture enhanced the color of her eyes and hair against her pale skin.

"We have to go see this woman," Vaughn told her. "She could help us."

"How?" Sydney demanded. "How could she help us?"

Vaughn lifted his eyes to hers, and when he did, she could see an anguish there that she could not understand, even after the moment they'd had after the accident. Suddenly, there was more than those missing two years between them, and she felt herself thrown off-stride. "Because she's the estranged daughter Delia Garza was talking about."


	4. Precedent

**Chapter Three**

_Precedent_

_* "**All I Need to Know" **performed by Emma Bunton. Written by Emma Bunton and Jamie Hartman._

The drive through Valladolid was uneventful, even anticlimactic after the skirmish from just several minutes before. Sydney, mouth set in a line, refused to talk to Vaughn as much as he refused to talk to her. Sydney watched Vaughn sidelong as they pulled up to the pretty little house. His face was unreadable, hard as stone as he parked the car in the driveway behind a well-kept gray sedan.

Vaughn cut the engine but made no move to get out. The injuries he'd gotten from the scuffle stood out in stark contrast on his pale skin, and in noticing that, Sydney's worry grew. She, in all of her memories of when she and Vaughn fought in tandem to take down SD-6, could not remember a moment when she had recalled him this visibly anxious.

"Vaughn," she began, "what are we doing here?"

His grip tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles were nearly bone-white, then, without warning, he forced himself to release it.

"You will understand soon, Sydney," Vaughn said, but didn't look at her. "Just trust me."

_A lot of bridges  
I shouldn't be so scared to burn  
_

"How?" Sydney asked. "How can I trust you when you hold me at arm's length?" The emotion in her voice reverberated through the car before she could rein it in. "You've been treating me like I don't exist, Vaughn. We barely talk to each other—"

_A lot of lessons  
I shouldn't be so scared to learn  
_

"Just do as I say," Vaughn said forcefully. With that, he got out of the car and slammed the door behind him.

_If I could lose the worst of me  
_

Sydney sat in the passenger seat for a few moments before getting out. She inhaled, trying to gain some composure. She didn't know what sort of entanglement she was getting herself twisted up into, but she found herself pulling the handle to the door and getting out of the car.

_Hold on to what remains__  
And all I need to know is you change with me__  
And help me be the most that I can be__  
And turn into the one last missing piece  
When it all comes down  
_

The door opened when they were halfway across the yard. The woman that stepped out was about five-five. Dark, curly hair was tamed into a French braid that trailed her spine and contrasted with a champagne-colored sweater. Her feet were bare, peeking out from under the hem of a pair of comfortably worn jeans. Her eyes were filled with shock as she stared at Vaughn, mouth slightly parted as if she wanted to speak. Sydney, a few steps behind Vaughn, caught onto the overwhelming vibes immediately; they knew each other.

_When it all comes down  
_

"How did you find me?" the woman asked, her voice thick with emotion.

Vaughn took a step closer as the sound of cartoons floated out to them. The woman's mouth flattened out into a grim line, and the astonishment that had dulled her seemed to be fading. She was sharper now, and her edges were honed with anger. Sydney also sensed protectiveness but couldn't pinpoint a reason why such would be present.

"I know I made a promise, but this is very important," Vaughn told her in his own defense. He didn't want to incite her rarely unleashed wrath by making this sound like a trivial visit.

"A matter of life and death?" she asked with a bit of sarcasm in her voice. She crossed her arms over her chest. "For you to have broken your promise to me, it better be."

He stared at her unflinchingly. "It's about your father."

She blanched then, and her eyes went wide. Her arms fell limply at her sides as Vaughn did not take the words back. Anger was pushed aside by that overwhelming shock that had consumed her when she'd heard the car pull up. But she recovered quickly, nodding as if she were trying to put things together in her head.

"Come inside," she said simply. "I think we'd better talk in there."

They followed the woman into the house, and the smell of sugar and roasted meat, along with the sound of cartoons, intensified as they moved into the heart of the home. There were touches of color and eclectity in throw rugs and knickknacks, and the presence of toys hinted at a child somewhere, unless you thought the woman was into cartoons. She stopped in a room that resembled a study except for the memorabilia that covered a wall.

Sydney wandered over to the wall, trying to find some clues to the woman's identity. There were numerous acting awards, along with trophies given for her talent of song. A poster announced an epic performance from _La Bella Cantante _that was dated some years ago. On the poster was a younger version of the woman, different than the live version only in a slight fullness of the cheeks and the application of makeup.

Silence ensued as Vaughn sat down in a chair and she stood leaning up against the desk. She watched Sydney with a bit of amusement before turning to Vaughn.

"She's as beautiful as you said she was," the woman remarked.

Sydney whirled around, frowning. She stared at Vaughn, who looked slightly uncomfortable. And quite honestly she wasn't too broken up about that aspect.

Vaughn cleared his throat then. "Actually, this is Sydney Bristow, one of my co-workers. She's not…my wife."

The woman gave Vaughn a startled look and he nodded imperceptibly. "I see," she merely said. She turned to Sydney then. "I'm Isabelle Flannery, by the way. As if you couldn't tell from the wall." She saw Sydney's eyes flicker toward the poster. "They called me _La Bella Cantante_ and it caught on everywhere. They used such a trite phrase, I suppose, since I had a large Italian following. Even though 'singer' is pretty much the same in Spanish and in Italian…" She waved a hand then as if to dismiss that train of thought. "I suppose we should change the subject."

"When was the last time you came into contact with your father, Ms. Flannery?" Sydney wanted to know. She felt that Vaughn was going to take a little longer than she liked to get to the bottom of things.

"Call me Isabelle. No need to be so formal." She paused then, considered the question. She responded, "The last time I had physical contact with my father was six years ago. However, I came into possession of some items from his collection after his death three months ago. Since I had no need for it, I donated most of it to a museum my friend owns in California. I didn't feel the need to keep things I had no desire for."

Vaughn and Sydney shared a glance before she turned her attention back to Isabelle. "Did you and your father have a falling out, Isabelle?"

A mirthless smile transformed her mouth. "It was quite a falling out," Isabelle replied, having no trouble answering the question. "We disagreed on a very"—she slid her eyes in Vaughn's direction—"important aspect of my life. He disowned me, and when Alejandro Esteban Garza does something, he never does it halfway. Luckily, as I had been working all of my adult life at that moment, it didn't really matter. I was independent enough to support myself."

What does this have to do with Vaughn? Sydney wanted to ask, as she caught Isabelle's eyes cutting in his direction, but she felt that it wasn't completely essential to know at the moment.

"Do you know anything about a man named Milo Rambaldi?"

"Yes," Isabelle and Vaughn said in unison. Sydney's brow quirked at their accord and, to this, Isabelle added, "Unfortunately. My father had been obsessed over the name and everything that went along with it for some years. Michael knows because, before I limited our contact—"

"_Limited our contact?" _Vaughn repeated ironically. "You call telling me to stay the hell away from you after you drop a bombshell on me merely _limiting our contact_?"

"This is not the time to argue about this," Isabelle shot back in a soft, firm voice that, despite its pitch, was filled with jagged teeth. "You obviously need my help locating something that my father possibly gave to me when he died or otherwise you would not be here. I am not obtuse enough to think that this is a nice social visit where we can toss out false pleasantries and reminisce about my dear late papa." Anger and resentment flashed in Vaughn's eyes and he said nothing. Since he was obviously stung by Isabelle's comment for the moment, Isabelle turned to Sydney. "Tell me what I can do."

Sydney was relieved by her candor and complied with her request. "We are looking for a Rambaldi artifact called the Globe. We received intel that your father had it and that others were seeking to take it into their possession. Unfortunately, when we went to retrieve it ourselves, we found that your father must have moved it, perhaps hid it before he died."

"And you think it might be among the things he bequeathed me."

Sydney nodded, relieved that she understood so quickly. "Yes."

A few humming moments passed as Isabelle hesitated to think. "Unfortunately, I don't recall ever seeing a globe—"

A crash came from the kitchen at that moment, breaking into Isabelle's statement. There was a soft cry, some exchange in Spanish, then rapid footsteps in their direction, getting louder as they neared. Sydney distinguished two sets of footsteps, one belonging to an adult and one belonging to a child. Isabelle excused herself to see what the clamor had been about, but the duo had entered the room before she could handle the situation without Sydney and Vaughn as witnesses.

"_¿Qué pasó?"_ Isabelle asked the petite dark-skinned young woman that had strode into the room.

"Nada," said the woman. "She got a little excited with the green beans, spilled a couple." She waved a hand in dismissal. "It's fine. The paella's done, though." She took a long look around the room, noticing Vaughn and Sydney with a suspicious frown. She leaned and spoke softly so that only Isabelle could hear her. "Everything all right?"

"It's a long story," Isabelle admitted. She looked down at the small figure she could see hiding behind Nicole's legs. She smiled and said in a melodious sing-song voice, "_Fee-Fee, ¿qué estás haciendo?"_

"_No __estoy haciendo__ nada, Mami," _was the muffled reply.

Wordlessly, Isabelle crouched down so that she was on eye-level with the child and held her hand out. Cautiously, the child peeked out from around the legs. She stared at her mother for a long moment before coming out. Isabelle snaked her outstretched hand around her daughter's waist and brought her to her chest. She looked up at the woman meaningfully. The woman nodded and left the room.

Isabelle stood after a moment, her daughter on her hip. The little girl had her head buried in her mother's shoulder, and hair as curly and rich as Isabelle's veiled her face. Vaughn rose to his feet then. Something was different in the room, and Sydney felt it; volumes of history had filled the space between Isabelle and Vaughn and it had not any space to include her.

"Can I?" Vaughn inquired, seeming humbler in the presence of the little girl. Sydney felt that she knew why, but the reason had not quite dawned…

Isabelle did not respond, instead turning to the little girl. It seemed the right thing to do, after all. It was the girl's choice. "Fee-Fee? _Mírame, por favor_." A couple of beats later, the girl raised her head. "_Hay alguien que yo quiero que tú conozcas."_ She gestured to Vaughn. "_Se llama Michael Vaughn y él es hombre muy simpático. Es una persona muy importante para mí también. Pues, no tanto como tú."_ She tweaked the girl's little nose and turned to Vaughn. As the girl's grip loosened on her mother, Isabelle passed her to Vaughn. Vaughn placed her expertly on his hip. They stared at each other, and Sydney came closer, trying to get a better look at the little girl.

"_¿Cómo te llamas?"_ Vaughn asked the little girl in his arms.

"Sophie," said the little girl. "My name is Sophie."

Isabelle smiled gently and pushed a lock of Sophie's hair away from her ear. "Her name is Sophia, but Sophie sounds softer and we like it better. _Verdad__,_ Fee-Fee?"

"_Sí__,_ Mami." She turned a charming smile onto Vaughn that would have buckled a Covenant cell leader. "But Mami and _Tía_ Nicole call me Fee-Fee. They're silly."

Isabelle tickled Sophie and made her laugh. Sydney smiled faintly at the huge grin on Vaughn's face. He stared at Sophie as if he were fascinated with every move she made, from the involuntary brush of hair behind her ear to the cute little smile that brightened her features. Sydney noticed that she looked the splitting image of Isabelle; she had inherited her mother's nose and mouth along with the light dusting of freckles on her nose. But there was one thing that took Sydney's breath away when she noticed.

She had Vaughn's eyes.

Translation

- "_¿Qué pasó?"_ **What happened?**

_- "Fee-Fee, ¿qué estás haciendo?" _**Fee-Fee, what are you doing?**

_- "No estoy haciendo nada, Mami." _**I'm not doing anything, Mommy.**

- "Fee-Fee? _Mírame, por favor_." **Fee-Fee? Look at me, please.**

-"_Hay alguien que yo quiero que tú conozcas. Se llama Michael Vaughn y él es hombre muy simpático. Es una persona muy importante para mí también. Pues, no tanto como tú."_ **There is someone that I want you to meet. His name is Michael Vaughn and he is a very nice man. He is a very important person for me also. Well, not as much as you.**

-"_¿Cómo te llamas?"_ **What is your name?**


	5. Stopover

**Chapter Four  
**_Stopover_

Some time later, they moved to the dining room to eat dinner. That night, it was Isabelle's favorite dish: paella. Isabelle had promised to resume their conversation but only if they would eat. Sydney saw no need to refuse a nice meal especially since they hadn't really eaten, and the plane was set to take off in about a hundred and eighty minutes. That would give them enough time to grill Isabelle and catch the plane back to Los Angeles.

They sat at a cozy table made for four in Isabelle's dining room; Sophie sat happily in her mother's lap and ate her dinner. Nicole portioned out the paella onto happy-looking orange-red plates before sitting down at Isabelle's right and directly in front of Sydney, who was at Isabelle's left. Before digging in, Nicole appraised the guests with a frown.

"Y'all gonna eat?" she asked. "It ain't poisoned, I promise."

"If you insist," Vaughn muttered and shoveled a forkful into his mouth. As he chewed, he was surprised to learn that it wasn't half-bad. It was actually well-prepared, much to his surprise. He didn't have to say so; it showed in his eyes when Nicole stared at him, and that satisfied her enough she began her own meal.

"We're having birthday cake for dessert," Isabelle announced, mostly for her daughter's sake. Sophie cheered.

Vaughn smiled faintly and forked up more food. "Was it your birthday yesterday, Sophie?"

Sophie nodded excitedly. "Mami baked me a birthday cake and sang me the birthday song," she told Vaughn. "Maybe she can sing you the birthday song for you on your birthday."

Vaughn looked at Isabelle as he chewed and swallowed, eyes clouded with memories. He dimly recalled a brief moment during a cold November on his mother's porch in Northern California and a cupcake topped with a single candle with a small but persistent flame. _We have an occasion to celebrate, my beloved. Today into this world you came some years ago._ Her clear, beautiful voice had resonated through him as the frigid wind bit through his coat and the smell of his mother's cooking wafted out from the inside. She'd worn a coat over a glittery gold dress and the last vestiges of stage makeup from a performance she'd had that night—the reason she couldn't make it for his birthday. _So for you I sing this tune. And wish a happy birthday to you._ "She already has." Isabelle met his gaze. She remembered, too. _Happy, happy, happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, my beloved. Happy birthday to you._ But she appeared as if she wanted to change the subject. "A long time ago."

As old ghosts started to whisper of forgotten times, Isabelle _did_ change the subject. "So"—she cleared her throat—"Sydney? You were asking me about my father. And a globe."

"Yes," Sydney confirmed, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "The Globe. Rambaldi."

"Right." Isabelle shifted gears mentally and even seemed sort of relieved about it. "I remember my father mentioning Rambaldi when I was little. He and Mama broke up when I was around Sophie's age. They were fighting, disagreeing on his way of life. Now that I think about it…his obsession with Rambaldi might have been instrumental in their divorce."

"Do you remember anything specific? A particular object or a certain argument?"

Isabelle paused to think. "Not really. I…" She hesitated again pensively as her brain found something new that had come up from the depths of her mind. "There was something my mother said during a fight while they believed John and I were sleeping. Something like, _You never even wanted me. It was always her. Always. You only married me so you could be close to her._"

As Sydney chewed upon what that could have meant, Vaughn frowned at Isabelle. "You never told me that."

"It came to me just now. I…" She placed her chin upon her daughter's curly head and suddenly appeared miserable. "I buried a lot of memories from that time. It was not a happy time for me, and it shattered a lot of the ideals I had built up in my short life. I wanted to forget it, especially after Mama married Jason Flannery. Things were so much better after that."

"I'm sure they were, but you still could have shared your feelings with me," Vaughn reminded her.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I know I should have told you about my father's identity, but I had separated myself from him and what he was really doing. If I had known that he was responsible for bombings and shootings and robberies on a grand scale, you'd better believe you would have known." She shrugged helplessly. "I turned a blind eye. I didn't want to believe and I didn't want to see. That ended up hurting you."

"You couldn't have known everything," Vaughn assured her. "After all, I'm sure your mother and stepfather shielded you from a great deal. And your father was adept at maintaining appearances. Every person like him is."

As Isabelle tried to accept Vaughn's assertions, Sydney decided to right the subject matter again as an idea bloomed in her head. "Is your stepfather still alive?" Sydney asked. "Maybe—"

The sound of a dog barking from the outside made Sydney bite off the rest of her sentence. There was a bit of shuffling, and the barking stopped abruptly—a little _too_ abruptly. As suspicion bloomed in them, Vaughn and Sydney looked at each other. It seemed that the cozy dinner at the charming little table in the cute little house was now going to have to come to a close.

"Isabelle, are you expecting company?" Sydney inquired in a low tone.

Isabelle frowned and raised her chin from the crown of her daughter's head. "Not at all. No one usually comes to visit…"

Then the adults at the table went silent as the meaning of this dawned on them in varying degrees, except for Nicole's breathy and consternated _Aw hell_.

"I think we'd better get moving," Nicole said softly as she plucked Sophie from her chair and moved around the table so stealthily that it was barely heard. Isabelle, Vaughn, and Sydney were all in various states of motion. Sydney and Vaughn were checking their firearms while Isabelle grabbed her purse and Nicole's.

"So how do you propose we get out of here?" Sydney whispered to Vaughn.

"Well, first off, we gotta know what we're up against," Nicole pointed out, overhearing. She went into the darkened living room after giving Sophie to her mother. When she returned, she described the person she'd found walking toward the house.

"Sark," Sydney said.

"If he's here alone, then he might not know we're here," Vaughn pointed out. "We could use that to our advantage."

"Who is Sark?" Isabelle wanted to know. "Do you know him?"

"I guess you could say that," Sydney responded wryly.

"I take it y'all ain't bosom buddies," Nicole observed. "So this not a social visit." She looked to Isabelle. "I'll go answer the door."

Isabelle shook her head vigorously. "_I'll_ go." She started forward when Vaughn placed a hand on her arm as the knock came on the door. She found herself a little startled by the fervor in his eyes.

"Not with my daughter you're not," Vaughn declared.

_Not with my daughter you're not._ How _dare _he use that tone of voice with her like she was some idiot? Isabelle's eyes narrowed and flashed with anger. She looked to be hairbreadth away from hitting him. "I don't have the damn time to argue with you, Daddy Dearest."

"You don't understand. This man is dangerous. He will not hesitate in killing a child, and I will not have Sophie dangled in front of him. Do you understand me?"

Isabelle's nostrils flared, and Nicole recognized the intent to maim in her eyes. As much as she didn't like Vaughn's sudden show of paternity, she didn't want to have to clean the blood from the floor. That stuff _never_ completely came out. "_I'll _take Sophie," she assured Isabelle. "Go answer the door. We'll go to Fee-Fee's room and figure out how to get out."

Isabelle gave Vaughn one more fulminating glare before stalking down the hall to answer the door. As they heard her open the door, Nicole ushered them to Sophie's room. She flicked on the television, turning the volume high enough to be considered normal, and left the door open a crack. Nicole placed Sophie on her feet in front of the TV and then she began systematically stuffing things into a bag.

"The best way to get out is through the window," Nicole said in a low tone as she zipped a bag with Sophie's things. She gestured to the window nearby. "It's at the back of the house but we can circle around, get to the driveway."

"Sounds like a plan," Sydney agreed. Nicole strode out of the room then, through a door that obviously led to Isabelle's bedroom. Sydney admired the way she kept her head and realized that they could not stay. "But how do we get Isabelle out without Sark noticing?"

"We'll have to get her back into the room somehow," Vaughn proposed. He pursed his lips together. "As much as I want to apprehend him…" His eyes slid in Sophie's direction. "I don't want to risk any casualties."

Sydney sighed, but she understood. With three civilians in the mix, the focus was undoubtedly on the civilians and keeping them safe. Not to mention apprehending Sark was not the mission's objective. _Too bad it wasn't,_ Sydney mused.

Nicole reappeared with another bag. "Passports and other stuff," she explained. "I'm guessing we're going back to the ol' US of A so I grabbed the important things." She tickled Sophie, made her laugh. "Ready for an adventure, Fee-Fee?"

[----]

Some time later, Isabelle moved around the dining room as she cleaned the table. Her actions were purposeful and deliberate but not hasty enough to rouse the suspicion of the attractive young man in dark slacks and a charcoal-colored shirt. Sydney and Vaughn's plates were absent as to keep the pretense that they were alone. The short-haired, blue-eyed man watched her and leaned on the door with a sort of causal elegance that belied his gravity. If Isabelle hadn't been told that he was dangerous, she would have figured it on her own—though, it would have taken a bit of time as his wickedness was hidden under a layer of gloss.

"You look a bit young to be a museum curator, Mr. McGuire," Isabelle noted aloud, relying on a bit of acting prowess to keep her from burying one of the dinner forks in his neck. She figured a bit of implied flirtation would be as good a veil as any.

"Thank you," Julian Sark, alias Matthew McGuire, said smoothly. "I suppose my skill has served me well in my field." He shifted and straightened as she began to stack the plates on top of each other. As he came toward her, Isabelle tried mightily not to flinch. "Here, let me help you."

She flashed him a smile. "It's quite all right."

"No. I insist." When their fingertips brushed, Isabelle inwardly cringed. On the outside, she gave him an understated smile as he lifted the plates. He paused for a second, sniffed the air. "What is that scent you're wearing?"

His eyes met hers, and she could see the calculation under the charm in those slate-blue depths. In an instant, she saw that he meant to woo her like she was some kind of empty-headed college girl or some lonely single mom who read Harlequins after everyone went to bed and coax whatever he wanted out of her. A blaze of indignation began inside of her and burned the fear away. _Like hell he would._

"It's called Motherhood," Isabelle told him with a bit of steel in her voice. She took the plates out of his hands and walked toward the kitchen as he peered at her with a bit of amusement.

[----]

"Damn him," Vaughn swore from behind Sophie's door. "Flirting with her…"

Nicole rolled her eyes as she threw one of the bags she had packed out of the window. She shoved his shoulder. "Would you snap out of it, man? Izzy can handle herself." She heard the chirp-like whistle that indicated Sydney didn't find anything suspicious on her visual of the yard. She sent out an answering whistle to indicate she heard. "Get ready to cue the distraction."

[----]

Isabelle stood at the sink in her kitchen. She lowered the dirty dishes into the soapy water and inhaled the aroma of dishwashing liquid and her own irritation. She was a smart woman, but she was out of her league here, and she would be the first to admit it. How did one handle herself against a known bad guy? Did you offer him a cup of tea, discuss soap operas, the weather, or the stock market? And there was no telling if he was armed or not…

"I have to tell you, Mr. McGuire, your interest in my father's collection is staggering, but I hate to break it to you—I donated most of the pieces to a museum owner in California. I am no longer in possession of what you want." She turned her head slightly so that he could see her striking profile. "I'm sorry."

He waited a beat then pointed out, "Well, if you only gave away most of it, then there is some still in your possession, Ms. Flannery."

_Nitpicking bastard,_ Isabelle thought angrily. She blew out the breath she had been holding through her nose. "If you would like to take this up with my lawyers, be my guest. To be honest, I wanted little to do with the things my father had accumulated and the donation was the best thing I could have done for me and the rest of the world." She placed the plate she had been cleaning on the rack to dry. "If you want to speak to the person I gave them to, I have her number. Perhaps she wouldn't mind bartering with you."

There was another silence then, and Sark came to stand beside at the sink. She caught his wispy masculine scent, and if it had been a different situation, she would have noted the fact that it suited him. In this case it just taunted her anger like a bully's whisper.

"I find it telling that you would merely give away millions of dollars of coveted artifacts because of the person to whom they formerly belonged," Sark told her. "You and your father must have been on terrible terms."

At the mention of her father, Isabelle's voice cooled. "My relationship between my father and me is no business of yours, Mr. McGuire. In fact, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from mentioning my father. I am grieved by his death but I would rather forget him."

Sark opened his mouth to speak but a child's shout came from somewhere in the house. Startled, as she knew that was her cue to get away from Sark and escape, she dropped a plate into the sink and it clanged against the others as soapy water splashed onto her sweater. "Dammit," she swore with an urgency in her voice that was not difficult to feign. "That's my daughter. I have to go check on her." She placed a bracing hand on Sark's firm chest. Her hand was stamped there with water. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

Her hand dropped to her side and she prepared to walk away—when he grabbed her arm. He had it twisted behind her back and her whirled around within a blink of an eye. She was so shocked that she stumbled into the dish rack she kept in the second basin with her free hand.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Flannery," Sark said in a deceptively pleasant tone. "But you're not going anywhere."

[----]

When Isabelle's shocked gasp was followed by a dull thud and some rattling, Vaughn and Nicole shared a look of startled fear and both found that the instinct to protect was present in the other's eyes.

"What the hell—?" Nicole began, already halfway out of the room.

Vaughn placed a hand on her taut shoulder and pulled her back. "Let me handle this," he said softly under the sound of the television. "You get Sophie outside to the car and I'll get Isabelle out."

"Mami." Sophie tugged on Vaughn's pant leg, the eyes she'd inherited from him filled with anxiety. He looked down at her and his heart lurched once in his chest. How could he explain what was going on to a child—and even more, _this_ child? "Where's Mami? I want Mami."

"Mami's coming, sweetie," Vaughn assured her gently as he manfully tried to keep the haste and panic out of his voice. "You have to go with Aunt Nicole now and find Sydney while I go get her. We're going to go someplace for a little while where's safe. Mami will be with us." He brushed her soft cheek when doubt appeared in her eyes. "Trust me. Okay?"

After a long humming moment, Sophie nodded tremulously and went to Nicole. Nicole gave him a fierce look before she and Sophie disappeared into the darkness that indicated that if any harm came to Isabelle she'd maim him. What she didn't know was that if anything happened to Isabelle, it would be like, in some measure, hurting himself.

Within a split second, Vaughn became an agent, and he padded down the darkened hallway toward the sound of Isabelle's terse voice. It was like a beacon, the only thing that kept him calm. She was still alive, so there was no reason to lose control. He had his gun drawn and he was prepared to fire upon the sight of Julian Sark.

"What the hell do you want from me?" Isabelle demanded. "I already told you what happened to my father's collection. It can easily be verified—" Her sentence ended on a grunt as he tightened his grip on her twisted arm. "Dammit, let me go."

When Sark spoke, his voice was still smooth as whipped cream with a slight jagged edge that promised to draw blood. Until now, she had only heard that sort of tone in movies, on stage. Now it was frighteningly real. "You know what I want from you, Ms. Flannery. I want the Globe. I know you have it."

"And what makes you think that I _do_ have it?" She gritted her teeth as the pain merged with the fury that sent adrenaline through her veins. "I don't have the Globe, for the last damn time. Now let me go or you'll regret it."

There was a struggle at that declaration, and Vaughn's heart lurched again. He heard Isabelle yelp after a sharp slap, and then she came crashing to the ground on her back a mere four feet away from him. Her dark hair was mussed and her green eyes were alive with equal parts fear and fury. Her hands were balled up into fists, and when Sark came for her, she kicked him with the force of a livid mule. She wasn't going to die quietly. And if Vaughn had anything to do with it, she wouldn't die at all.

For the second time that evening, time slowed and dripped like waterdrops with the agonizing speed of molasses. Seeing the light from her daughter's room spilling out into the hallway, Isabelle whipped her head in that direction, prepared to scream for her to stay back, get away. When she saw Vaughn, her face changed; all of her breath left her lungs and she started to scramble up to her feet. He caught her outstretched hand in his own, hauled her to her feet and pushed her behind him in two swift moves.

With Vaughn as Isabelle's shield, Sark came face-to-face with his adversary. His lip was bleeding where Isabelle had punched him, and when he recognized the intensity of Vaughn's eyes as Isabelle clung to him, bemusement filled his eyes.

"You two know each other?" Sark inquired. He smirked at Vaughn as their expressions said it all. "What a small, small world it is. You seem to get around, Agent Vaughn. Tell me, will your wife appreciate your relationship with a woman such as this one?"

"My marriage and my involvement with Isabelle Flannery is my own business," Vaughn snapped, his weapon hand as steady as a brick house. "You are in no position to taunt me as I have a gun pointed at you."

Sark idly touched a fingertip to his weeping lip then lifted his eyes to Vaughn's again. "So then, perhaps we should even the odds." And with that, he raised a gun of his own, pointed it at Isabelle, and pulled the trigger.


	6. Pursuit

**Chapter Five**  
_Pursuit_

Vaughn barely moved Isabelle out of the path of the bullet before it whizzed past her left shoulder. He fired off a couple of shots of his own but Sark had dived out of the path of danger. He swore as Isabelle stuck near him, not deterred one bit by flying bullets.

"Get out now, Isabelle!" Vaughn hissed as he leaned up against the wall facing the front door. "I don't want you in the middle of this."

"Like hell!" Isabelle burst out from beside him. "This is _my_ house, dammit!" And just to prove her point, she growled as a bullet pinged off of a bronze pot of flowers. "Effing bastard. Has no respect…"

Vaughn sighed wearily. "And when was your first clue?" When Isabelle glared at him, he muttered under his breath, "Leave it to you, Isabelle. You don't understand that he will not hesitate in killing you."

"So if he's hell bent on killing people then that means that you are in as much danger as I am," Isabelle pointed out. "And so are Sydney, Nicole, and Sophie. In that case, I'll stick and make sure he doesn't get past us."

"We can't grapple like this forever," Sark called to them. Isabelle and Vaughn shared a grim look. "Eventually one of us will break. As I have dueled with Agent Vaughn before, I know he is quite tenacious. But you, Ms. Flannery—I am not quite sure about you." He paused, and Isabelle's nose flared in anger. It seemed that fleshy barb had hit its mark. "Though, your brother seemed to be quite formidable against me. But that was a long, long time ago…"

Vaughn saw the blood drain from Isabelle's face at the mention of her late older brother. Her eyes were over bright and he could see the tears building in them. Her lips trembled but she steeled them by pressing them together. When he spied the spots of color rising in her cheeks he grabbed her arm to keep her from going after Sark. He didn't have a strong enough hold upon her; she leapt up against good judgment and grabbed his gun.

"Isabelle!" Vaughn cried as he scrambled after her. "Dammit—!"

"What do you know about my brother?" Isabelle demanded as she pointed the gun in the direction from which Sark's voice had last come. "Tell me right now."

"It seems we are at an impasse, Ms. Flannery," Sark pointed out smoothly, his voice echoing through his empty kitchen. "You have something that I want, and I have something that you want. So what will you do?"

Before Isabelle had a chance to answer, the side door in the kitchen banged open, and Sark's footfalls indicated that he was using that exit to evade them. Blinded by her fury and sorrow, Isabelle ran after him. Vaughn called after her again, but she didn't listen. He pushed himself to his feet as he felt the effects of the car accident earlier that night weighing upon him. He wasn't about to let Isabelle get killed. Not now. Not ever. And especially not by Julian Sark.

[----]

In the car in the street, Nicole frowned. "They've been in there way too long."

Sydney agreed, but she didn't say it aloud. The bad feeling that had begun in the pit of the stomach had spread, and she tried to shut out all of the dire scenarios in her head, instead electing to figure out how to handle them. She lifted her pant leg and took the weapon from her ankle holster. She handed the gun to Nicole and asked, "Do you know how to use this thing?"

Nicole gave her a bland, unblinking stare with one eyebrow cocked.

Sydney blinked. "Oh-_kay…_I guess that was a dumb question."

"Look," Nicole said, "Go do what you've gotta do. I'll watch Fee-Fee." As the child looked at her with anxious eyes, Nicole covered her ears and added, "And if that Ken-doll-looking mother has even as much put a _finger_ on her, you better bust a cap in his anatomically correct ass."

If it had been a less serious situation, preferably one where they weren't in a foreign country with an international fugitive in their midst, Sydney would have laughed at the _Ken-doll-looking mother_ comment. Instead, she cocked her gun and unlocked her door. "I'll be back," she told Nicole.

As she crossed the yard, she heard Nicole yell, "All right, Terminator! Do what you do!"

Yes, funnier in a less serious situation indeed.

Sydney paused by the front door of Isabelle's home and listened. She could hear the sound of Sophie's television blaring in the back of the house, but nothing else. The fact that there were no other sounds of human existence inside had a ball of dread hardening in her belly.

She sucked in a breath and kicked the door open.

The living room was empty. She swung into the living room with her gun prominent, eyes darting around to scope out danger. All she saw was Isabelle's living room, showing a few signs of battle in overturned vases and a bullethole in the bronze pot weeping water all over the floor. She stepped around it and inched into the kitchen. Unrest had presented itself here also; the spice rack was swinging precariously on one nail and a couple of bullets were lodged in the doorframe. She sniffed the air and recognized the unmistakable scent of Julian Sark just inside the doorway. She also scented Isabelle's faint presence as her eyes lifted to the open side door. _What had happened?_

Sydney heard a yell as it wafted through the open door from outside, and recognized Vaughn's voice immediately. She followed the sound, her heart in her throat. She tried not to think about what sort of scene she would find. She just told herself that whatever it was, she'd handle it.

[----]

It was an emotionally-charged race, with legs pumping, hearts thudding. Sark had a bit of an advantage, but Isabelle was faster than Vaughn gave her credit for.

As they flew over the dusty earth, Sark tripped over a rock and stumbled. Like a crazed linebacker, Isabelle tackled him to the ground. In the tussle that ensued, both of them lost grip on their guns. Sark's weapon skittered over the ground and behind a bush, while Vaughn's firearm had flown a few feet away. Sark pinned Isabelle to the ground and straddled her as he pressed his hand to her windpipe. She struggled against him, and Vaughn fought the fatigue that had crashed upon him to fight Sark away from her.

Isabelle's gasping breaths could be heard over the grunts Sark and Vaughn made as they fought. As she fought the pinpricks from her eyes, Isabelle launched herself upon Sark once again and threw him off of the injured agent. Vaughn groaned as he spied Isabelle going at Sark with her fists. He supposed drastic times called for abandonment of finesse. Finally Sark backhanded her hard on the cheek.

"Isabelle!" Vaughn cried, watching her hit the ground, hard, and roll onto the grass in the moonlight. While his attention was diverted, Sark sucker-punched him and he stumbled back a few steps. Vaughn attempted to right himself, but Sark advanced upon him again and punched him in the stomach. Vaughn doubled over in pain, and Sark, panting with exertion, hauled him up by the hair.

He had a fist balled, ready to plow it into Vaughn's face when he heard the unmistakable clatter of a gun cocking.

Sark found himself faced with the fierce-eyed woman. He found himself momentarily thrown by Vaughn's weapon in her hand, as none of the intel on her indicated that she knew how to wield a firearm. But how could he be surprised? She was Alejandro Garza's daughter, and he had been a cunning bastard. Not to mention, that insurmountable grief that was alive in those emerald orbs was on its own a force to be reckoned with. So Sark flipped out a knife from his pocket and acted.

"You won't shoot me, Isabelle dear," Sark crooned as he forced Vaughn in front of him and placed the knifepoint to the pulse at his throat. "Put the gun down before you hurt yourself or I split him from neck to navel."

"I don't think you want to know what a bullet to the brain will feel like," Isabelle told him coldly. "Let him go."

"Jesus—listen to him and put the gun down, Isabelle," Vaughn wheezed. "This is not the time to play gunslinger."

Sark sneered at Isabelle. "See? Even Agent Vaughn doesn't think you could make the shot. He has no faith in you. Do you really want to save his life, Isabelle? Do you?"

Isabelle didn't move, didn't blink. Then her eyes changed and that filled Vaughn with apprehension. "Michael, forgive me," she said softly. "But I think he's right. You don't believe in me."

"I do believe in you," Vaughn burst out desperately. "But not with a government-issue firearm in your hand. Put it down. He will kill me, Isabelle."

"No," Isabelle said mysteriously. "He won't."

She narrowed her eyes and fired off two shots before Sark could begin the sentence on his lips. The first grazed his neck and produced a weeping wound. That startled him enough to loosen his grip on Vaughn and she shot him in the chest. The force of the last bullet had Sark stumbling backwards, and Vaughn slumped to the ground.

She was not a violent woman, but, quite frankly, she was tired of his bullshit. Not to mention, she was pissed.

When Sark didn't move, Isabelle went to Vaughn. She knew that he wasn't dead but he was incapacitated at the moment enough for them to finally escape. She pulled the injured CIA agent to his feet and stuffed the gun in the waistband of her jeans.

"You could have killed me, Isabelle!" Vaughn panted as they began their journey back toward the house.

"You know, I'm getting quite tired of you men underestimating me," Isabelle fumed. "You point and shoot. There is not much more to it." She placed her hand on his neck to staunch the wound Sark's knife had made. "Do you want your gun back?"

Heavy, rapid footsteps echoed through the empty air, and several seconds later Sydney appeared with her own gun drawn. Whatever response Vaughn had was forgotten; the unmistakable sound of sirens wailing sliced through the quiet night and stole his train of thought.

Sydney took in the scene before her: Sark on the ground bleeding and Isabelle standing there with her hand on Vaughn's neck. Vaughn's firearm was sticking out of the waistband of Isabelle's jeans, which made Sydney frown. Vaughn caught this and took his gun back. Isabelle met his disapproving gaze unflinchingly.

"I think one of your neighbors called the police," Sydney said to Isabelle. She then looked to Vaughn. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Vaughn said. "Where is—?"

"I left Nicole to protect Sophie," Sydney explained. Before Vaughn could open his mouth to protest, "I gave her my gun before I left. Apparently she knows how to use a gun."

"Then Sophie'll be safe with her," Isabelle assured Vaughn. She stared at him wordlessly until she was sure that he understood she knew what she was talking about. It was a short battle, but Isabelle came out the victor. "Come on. I think you need stitches."

Isabelle slipped her hand from Vaughn's neck when he moved to replace it with his own. She strode forward in the moonlight as Sydney gazed at Vaughn. He shook his head wordlessly and said nothing.

[----]

Samara Lewis was hungry.

If she had told this to anyone, she would have found them deficient in understanding, for they would have suggested a stop at one of the numerous restaurants and fast food places. No, a hamburger and French fries would simply had not have satisfied her desire. And damn those who would have insinuated that perhaps she needed some sophomoric encounter with some smarmy member of the opposite sex. What Samara wanted came at a higher price than food or sex and was much, much more pleasing to her palate. What she wanted was blood—the blood of a certain person pooling at her feet as the life ebbed out of her.

Was that evil? No. It was just, right. It was meant to be.

As meant to be as it had been when the call had come, and she was dispatched to rescue an ally. After laying down a game plan with three other allies, she donned a disguise, stuffing her glorious chestnut hair into a curly honey blond wig and changing her ice-blue eyes to a muddy brown. For the venture, she dressed like a college girl who had found herself lost in Spain, wearing a fluffy gray sweater that hid the Glock she had against her back and dark jeans.

She knew the route the ambulance carrying the detained was taking; she stationed herself along a somewhat deserted stretch of road with a dented, smoking car while some of her associates hid nearby. She even mustered up tears and added smudges of dirt to her pale visage to add to the picture of distress. When she stood in the middle of the street and waved the ambulance down, she appeared hysterically helpless. The vehicle came to a screeching halt a mere two feet in front of her before the driver, hopped out yelling in rapid Spanish.

"I'm so sorry!" Samara gushed in a cloying Southern drawl. "You've gotta help me!" The driver yelled at her, gesticulating wildly. She understood what he was saying perfectly, as her mother had been fluent in the language, but she tilted her head quizzically as if she didn't understand. "You have got to listen! I don't speak Mexican. My car—" She stopped speaking abruptly as the sound of feet on the pavement signaled the entrance of the driver's partner. She turned to second man with tears shimmering in her ice-blue eyes, and prepared to appeal to him.

"You don't speak Spanish?" the second man asked with a thick accent.

"I only speak English," Samara responded and clung to him tearfully like he was her lifeline in a storm-tossed sea. The driver spit out a spew of Spanish that inwardly enraged Samara. _Come on, man. She's just a stupid hysterical American female. We've got a job to do._ "You have to help me. There're some really bad men after me." She let out a short shriek as a dark-clothed figure came toward them. "Ohmigod—there's one of them!"

The two EMTs turned around…only to receive debilitating blows to the back of their heads. Samara huffed as the bodies fell to the ground and lifted steely eyes to the new person on the scene.

"About damn time," Samara snapped out. She wiped the moisture from her eyes and started for the ambulance as a black van drove up. "Let's get this done."

She and her associates carefully and expediently extracted their injured comrade from the back of the ambulance and lifted him into their black van. They had to disappear before anyone caught on to their scheme and followed them. Samara pursed her lips together as one of her comrades, a man named Frank, searched the prone form before looking up at her. He shook her head wordlessly, and Samara cursed.

"Dammit. She didn't have it after all," Samara lamented.

"As far as we know," Frank surmised. "But she may have it soon." He glanced in the direction of the ambulance where one of their group was searching, then back at her. "We'll have to wait and see how things play out. In the meantime, we have to take care of him like our superiors ordered us to do."

Samara clenched her jaw but said nothing. When the last returned empty-handed, they agreed to leave the scene.

Because she was the youngest, and the only female, she got the task of watching over the prone body of the man she knew as Julian Sark. The only information she had about him came from a fact file that she'd only acquired earlier that night. With the plans of the Covenant going awry there in Valladolid, it seemed that introductions needed to be made in order to forge bonds between fellow members of the group and ensure the success of it as a whole. She believed in that because she knew that was the way they were going to reach their endgame. And in this case, it involved the one person in the world that she truly hated.

They had been on the road, going northeast toward their escape, when Sark stirred. Frank, the only one of the group with medical training, had extracted the bullet and had fixed Sark up enough to hold him until they reached their destination. Samara had been sitting with her knees to her chest but shifted to lean over Sark as he battled unconsciousness.

"Where…am I?" he managed, voice hoarse and eyes glassy from pain. Then his eyes latched onto hers with a bit of bemusement as he struggled to sit up and winced at the ache. "And who are you?"

"You are safe," Samara told him as the van bounced over the rocky terrain. She pushed him down onto the padding they had made to make the voyage easier for him. "And as for my identity, you can call me Samara. That will do for now."

"Eventually I will…want to know more about you," he warned her. "But since…you saved me from being detained by the CIA…I have to thank you."

A smile tugged at the edges of Samara's bottom-heavy mouth but those eyes didn't warm. "When the time comes, I will tell you all you need to know. Right now, you need to rest. We've a long road ahead of us."

He said nothing then, and she supposed that he was taking her advice to heart. Samara sat beside him for a few moments longer without knowing why but didn't fight the urge to remain where she was. As she stared into those eyes as cool blue as her own, she realized that she might have found the person to help satisfy her nagging need.


	7. Briefing

**Author's Note:** _I love, love, love Nicole Smith. After this chapter, you'll see why._

**Chapter Six  
**_Briefing_

They arrived in Los Angeles nearly a day later. Since Nicole refused to be left out of whatever was to happen next, and, additionally, Isabelle refused to let Sophie out of her sight, Sydney and Vaughn had to get clearance to let them inside CIA headquarters. So the displaced trio accompanied Vaughn and Sydney to work.

As the quintet entered the pen, Lauren shot up from her desk chair and went to her husband, whom she had not seen in almost two days. As she took in the scene, she seemed to stop short at the sight of Vaughn's hand on Isabelle's shoulder and the other clutching Sophie's along with the bruise on his cheek.

"Michael—what happened?" she began.

Vaughn frowned and shifted away from Isabelle, eyes filled with bemusement. "Dixon didn't tell you?"

Lauren shook her head. "No, he didn't." She flicked a glance at the displaced trio, a glance that had Nicole inwardly putting her hackles up. "Are they agents, Vaughn?"

Sydney decided to speak up then. "No, they're not, Lauren." She gestured to the trio. "These are Isabelle Flannery, her daughter Sophie, and Nicole Smith. After our mission went awry in Valladolid, we"—her voice hitched a bit on the pronoun but only Vaughn noticed—"found out that they could be crucial to finding the Globe. So we brought them with us so we could ensure their protection. Especially since Sark somehow escaped CIA protection."

Lauren said nothing then. Sydney suggested they move to Dixon's office to wait on everyone else and also to get out the way. As they were settling in, Weiss came onto the scene, taking in the new faces in stride—that is, until he got to the little girl holding Vaughn's hand. And saw his buddy stamped there on her face. Marshall entered a few beats later, but everyone was transfixed by the jovial Weiss unhinged by a seven-year-old.

"Well, hello," he managed.

"Hi!" Sophie announced energetically. "My name is Sophie. Do you have a gun, too?"

"Sophie!" Isabelle scolded when Weiss laughed. She gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. We had a little incident in Valladolid and she's been asking every agent she sees if he or she has a gun."

"Incident?" Weiss inquired, and looked to Sydney and Vaughn for an explanation. "What exactly happened in Spain?"

"We encountered Sark," Sydney responded. "He and Vaughn"—Vaughn stared hard at Isabelle and she narrowed her green eyes at him—"and Isabelle had a brief altercation and Isabelle shot him."

Weiss and Lauren gaped at the seemingly innocuous Isabelle with varying degrees of shock.

"Two times," Sydney continued almost as if she were giving a report. "One was a flesh wound on the neck and the other was in the shoulder. He was unconscious when he was taken into custody. An unidentified vehicle intercepted the ambulance transporting Sark and helped him escape. The authorities in Valladolid are willing to help us in that respect."

Weiss nodded, then shifted incredulous eyes to Isabelle. "So…" Isabelle looked up at him. "Who taught you how to shoot? John Wayne?"

"My father insisted that I learn how to use a gun," Isabelle responded. Then, her eyes clouded a bit as she remembered Sark's words. "He and my older brother."

Vaughn's brow lifted. "And I find it strange that John would have let you touch a gun. He would be appalled if he were still alive and knew what you had done in Valladolid."

Isabelle's eyes flashed. "I had to do what I had to do, Michael. I had no other option. It was either have you gutted like a trout or bring you back to Los Angeles in one piece. I'm a civilian but I'm not stupid. Besides, you heard the things he said about my brother. I couldn't let that rest."

"What you did was careless and could have gotten you or me or Sydney or Sophie killed," Vaughn disagreed. "I still can't believe you were that irresponsible, Isabelle."

"Gee, I guess the token black chick could get shot and you wouldn't shed a tear, huh?" Nicole quipped dryly, but Vaughn was paying no attention.

"I had to do something," Isabelle snapped out. "I wasn't going to sit there and do nothing while some dangerous man threatened your life. He could have gone after Sydney, Sophie and Nicole when he was done with us."

"Thanks for remembering me," Nicole muttered.

"Hard to forget." Isabelle addressed Vaughn again. "Now look. I don't know what kind of woman you think I am…"

"You are obviously reckless and thrill-seeking. I thought maybe being a mother had cured you of those little tendencies, but maybe I was wrong. There is no way in hell that you could have managed shooting Sark in the forehead to save me."

Nicole rolled her eyes at Vaughn and looked to Sydney, because, honestly, she felt that Sydney had some pull here. "Can we give him an open-handed slap in the mouth so he'll shut the hell up?"

Lauren opened her mouth to protest. Weiss pursed his lips to try and stifle the smile that threatened to break out onto his face. Sydney found that she couldn't help dimpling a little, even as Vaughn sent her a glare sidelong. For some odd reason, she was amused by Vaughn getting flustered at Isabelle for knowing how to wield a firearm. Isabelle just sighed and shook her head in disbelief.

Marshall raised a hand slightly since he wanted to interject. "I for one don't think that would be very nice to do to Agent Vaughn." Nicole and Isabelle raised their eyebrows at him as if they disagreed. So Marshall, in his endearing, bumbling way, amended, "But then again, it might be a bit silly for Vaughn to be worried about Ms. Flannery's skill with a firearm as she is the daughter of Alejandro Garza and they probably had nice father/daughter moments involving a gun and some dented up cans, which would be a nice thing for a woman in any situation because we all have to know how to defend ourselves, right? I mean, don't we?"

"Yeah, don't we, Vaughn?" Weiss teased, despite himself.

"Shut up, Weiss," Vaughn said tersely.

"Ain't no point in getting mean," Nicole chided him. "Dude has a point. Isabelle is stronger than you think she is even though she had a baby and all—and lord knows y'all couldn't handle that, so don't even pull that caveman act like you did on the plane and on the car ride on the way here. It's kinda tired."

"Please don't pick on my husband," Lauren said to Nicole. "He has a right to be concerned. Someone could have gotten killed."

Nicole turned her brown-eyed gaze upon her with the air of _And who asked you what you thought of the situation?_ "Well, no one did, so calm down. And your husband needs to get over it." She peered at Vaughn again. "Besides, shouldn't it be a load off your mind that Izzy can handle herself? I mean, damn. Grow some sense, man."

Before Vaughn could speak, Lauren spoke for him. "My husband has plenty of sense. You cannot berate him for his concern for Ms. Flannery and her child in what was obviously a very foreign situation for them. In fact, it seems quite crass of you to do so."

As Lauren made her statement, Nicole's eyes widened and her facial expression clearly said_, Oh hell no!_ Seeing the vocal barrage that was to come, Isabelle placed her hand on clenched fingers and shook her head.

"That heffa doesn't know who she's dealing with," Nicole said under her breath.

Isabelle's eyebrows quirked meaningfully and Nicole said nothing more even though her surly expression indicated she wanted to do otherwise. Isabelle turned to Vaughn, voice even, and remarked, "So this is your wife?"

Sydney looked to Vaughn for his reaction, remembering her statement back at her house. Vaughn, a little bemused, responded, "Yes, this is my wife."

"I see," Isabelle merely said. Sydney understood the meaning in between those two words, and it seemed she didn't approve entirely of Lauren. That gave her a small measure of pleasure, even though she knew she shouldn't have been worried about what others thought of Lauren.

Jack and Dixon entered the room right then. Their entrance wasn't brisk per usual, which indicated that perhaps they had been listening to the exchange. Marshall, Sydney, Weiss, Lauren, and Vaughn moved to their seats and Nicole, Isabelle, and Sophie were left standing. As Jack claimed his own seat, Dixon went to greet the upright trio.

"Thank you for offering to help with this," Dixon said with genuine gratitude in his voice. "I understand that this is a very unique situation for the three of you, and we will try in every way possible to ensure your comfort and protection."

Isabelle thanked him, clasping his large hand in both of her smaller ones. "Thank you, Mr. Dixon. Nicole, Sophie and I appreciate your efforts."

Nicole held up a hand. "Actually, there is one thing." As Dixon nodded to indicate he was all ears, Nicole leaned in and asked, "Could we put a muzzle or something on the blonde one? That would be for comfort, of course."

Lauren's mouth dropped open. Sophie giggled. Isabelle nudged Nicole, who looked at her innocently. Dixon didn't know how to respond to that other than saying, "We will do what we can, Ms. Smith."

"Thank you, sir," Nicole thanked him. She grinned at Isabelle, who could only shake her head in a mix of amusement and disbelief. She followed Dixon to the head of the room as Nicole took a seat with Sophie in her lap.

"As you all know, the mission to Valladolid to retrieve the Globe failed," Dixon began. "Agents Vaughn and Bristow were unable to complete their task because the intel we received was incorrect, not due to any dearth of skill on their part." A smile tugged at Sydney's lips at that statement of encouragement. "Garza must have had the artifact moved or this was a deliberate set-up on someone's part. The appearance of Julian Sark hints at probable Covenant involvement. There was a skirmish involving Sark and he was injured. Unfortunately, he somehow has escaped custody, and the security breach is being investigated.

"During the mission, Agents Vaughn and Bristow encountered Ms. Flannery here, who is Alejandro Garza's oldest daughter." He looked to Isabelle. "If you don't mind, Ms. Flannery…"

"Not at all." Isabelle took a small step forward, making sure she had their attention. "Ms. Smith, my daughter and I were…visited"—the word came out with a bit of irony; Sydney and Vaughn glanced at each other—"by Agents Vaughn and Bristow at my house a little over thirty-six hours ago. They explained to me what Mr. Dixon just informed you, and I told them that I had donated my father's collection to my friend Marisol Sebastian. Ms. Sebastian owns a museum in Gracia, a few miles northeast from here. As we were in transit, I contacted Ms. Sebastian about her inventory, and she told me that she didn't have anything that resembled a globe."

"Do you think your father could have hidden it away somewhere without your knowledge?" Lauren inquired. "After all, you spent years estranged from one another so there is hardly any telling what he did with the artifact."

"We think that Garza probably hid it among something ordinary of Isabelle's so that it would escape notice," Sydney piped up. She got a nagging feeling that Lauren was trying to negate Isabelle's importance and it pissed her off. "It's probable Isabelle has it and doesn't even know."

"If Garza left most of his estate to someone else, why would he entrust something so important to a daughter he didn't consider his own?"

"Because he's not stupid," Vaughn responded, earning varying degrees of astonishment from everyone. Though, Nicole looked the most shocked, while Lauren appeared like Vaughn had just cried mutiny. "Alejandro Garza was a shrewd and dangerous man, but he took pride in his offspring. Without his oldest male heir, Isabelle was the only viable choice. He knew she would get rid of most if not all of it; it's the way she is. She doesn't like to revel in things that mean nothing to her, and most of her father's collection is just that: things that mean nothing to her." Isabelle stared at him slack-jawed as he spoke. "So in knowing that, Sydney, Isabelle, and I agreed that it was probably hidden in something she would have saved from his collection. Maybe something that had to do with her mother."

Thinking of her deceased mother, Isabelle looked to the floor. Her eyes were filled with unshed tears. Sydney herself swallowed, thinking of all the emotions that had been brought to the surface at the mentioning of a dead mother on the plane as they had been discussing the Globe. When Isabelle's eyes rose, they fell upon Sydney. Sympathy and anguish were both alive in those green depths. But before Isabelle looked away, those same eyes steeled.

"If all of this is true," Jack began, "if Alejandro Garza did in fact anticipate his daughter's movements to be rid of the collection we thought the artifact was a part of, then how do we go about securing the Globe before the Covenant does? Where can we find it?"

Isabelle inhaled, but Nicole spoke instead. She could tell that Isabelle was working through something at the moment. "Izzy has the stuff she actually kept in a safe-deposit box at a bank in New York." She looked at her friend. "I don't know what's in it. I never asked."

"We need to move onto the box immediately," Dixon said. "Agent Vaughn, you will accompany Ms. Flannery to New York, posing as her husband." Lauren pursed her lips together and slid her eyes in the direction of her husband. Vaughn met her gaze momentarily before looking away. "Sydney, you and Weiss will be on comms. I think this is a simple enough mission to do without Op Tech. However, Agent Vaughn, I am trusting you to protect Ms. Flannery during this mission. Do not fail."

"Mm-hmm," Nicole intoned. "He'd better not. He'll have to answer to me and I can assure you"—she leveled a steely glare upon Vaughn—"he won't like it."

Since he couldn't think of anything to say to that, Dixon ended the briefing by dismissing them, and that broke the silence.

Sydney watched as Vaughn pulled Lauren out to the hallway where he could talk to her in relative private. Judging from her pinched expression, his first task would have to be to reassure her that things were fine, but there would be no telling how she would react after she learned the truth about Sophie…

"That was something wasn't it?" Weiss remarked to Sydney.

"Yeah. I thought Nicole and Lauren were going to come to blows."

"As much as I like Lauren, my money's on Nicole. She has that ready-to-rumble look." He glanced at Isabelle speaking to Dixon. She appeared anxious, and she was gesturing toward Nicole and Sophie, who were both chatting animatedly with Marshall. "I wonder what's wrong."

"She's worried about Nicole and Sophie," Sydney revealed. "She doesn't trust just anyone to watch them. She's afraid Sark will try and go after them while we're in New York." Her eyes flicked in the direction of the hallway where Vaughn was talking to Lauren, and she queried Weiss in a low tone, "Did you know about Isabelle?"

Weiss exhaled. "Honestly, Sydney, he never mentioned her," Weiss responded, matching her discreet tone. "Vaughn knew her brother—Jonathan Flannery I think. He used to be a detective for the LAPD, but he was killed about six or seven years ago."

Around the time Sophie was born, Sydney calculated, even though she didn't know if it meant anything. Pondering upon that, Sydney was silent when he father strode up to her and Weiss.

"Could you excuse us, Agent Weiss?" Jack asked the male agent. Weiss gallantly excused himself and left Sydney and her father alone.

Recognizing the look in her father's eyes, Sydney asked, "What's wrong, Dad?"

"Nothing really. I just…" He trailed off and met his daughter's bemused gaze. "I'm worried about how you're taking this, another woman with a history with Michael Vaughn."

Sydney snuck another glance at Isabelle. This time, she was holding Sophie and reprimanding Nicole about going at it with Lauren moments before. "Isabelle is different. I don't know how to explain it, Dad. I know she would rather see him happy, whether it's with her or not. She doesn't seek to use their past against him or hang it over his head. She has Sophie and Nicole, and for her that is enough."

"She has the blood of an international terrorist in her veins," Jack reminded her.

"And so do I," Sydney shot back. "But I chose to be what I am, and she has, too. She hardly wants Sophie to live through the hell her father put her through. I haven't known her for more than half a day but I know that."

"I just want you to be careful, Sydney. You don't know everything there is to know about Isabelle Flannery."

[----]

Meanwhile, the topic of the Bristows' conversation bit her lip worriedly and glanced outside the briefing room. "I really don't want to go out there yet. What if they're still talking?"

"Then just walk past them. Damn, Iz, don't get all twisted about her feelings."

Isabelle gazed at Nicole meaningfully. "I don't think she knows, Nicole."

Nicole froze. Her brown eyes went as huge as saucers. "_**What?!"**_ she boomed, her voice reverberating in the small room. Isabelle shushed her as curious glances came their way. "Don't shush me! That boy has lost his damn mind! He ought to have told her as soon as he said I do. Or on the honeymoon or something." She lowered her voice in a loose caricature of Vaughn's but it came across more Carlton Banks from the _Fresh Prince of Bel-Air_ instead. "_Hey sweetheart, before we get it on on these here satin sheets, I've got something to tell you. I've got a baby mama."_

Sophie tittered, finding the Nicole's delivery funny even though she didn't know what the statement meant. Isabelle was stuck in between exasperation and amusement so she only said, "Nicole, Michael would not use the phrase _baby mama_."

Nicole blinked. "So?" Isabelle sighed. "Look—point is, he should have told her. So don't worry about it so much. It's on him." With that, she grabbed Isabelle's arm and led her out of the room. They passed Vaughn and Lauren, who looked as if they were in the throes of a serious conversation. "If you look back, you'll turn into salt, girl."

Suddenly, Vaughn called out her name, and the trio stopped abruptly.

"You're gonna turn into stone!" Nicole hissed.

"Shut up, Nicole!" Isabelle hissed back. She turned to face Vaughn and Lauren with a friendly look on her face. "Yes?"

"Lauren and I were just discussing things," Vaughn began, "and I know you're understandably concerned about keeping Sophie and Nicole safe while we all are gone."

"Yes, that is a great concern to me," Isabelle agreed. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, Lauren could watch over Nicole and Sophie while in we're in New York."

Isabelle subtly nudged Nicole, making her bite off an _Oh hell no_. "That would be lovely," she responded with a dazzling smile. "Thank you, Lauren."

"Oh no, it won't," Nicole disagreed, not heeding Isabelle's glare. Nicole looked at Lauren point-blank and continued. "To be real, I don't trust you. This is my Fee-Fee we're talking about here." At that moment, Sydney and Jack walked out of the briefing room, talking, and Nicole swung a finger in Jack's direction. "Him. I'd rather stay with him."

Everyone looked to Jack with rapt interest.

There was a humming pause before he spoke as he took in the eyes appraising him. "I am not a baby-sitter, Ms. Smith," Jack responded archly. "In that capacity, I think Ms. Reed would be better suited."

Nicole broke away from Isabelle and walked up to Jack. She stared up at him, her gaze unwavering despite the palpable presence that made all the other agents sit up straight whenever he walked past. "I'm the baby-sitter in this scenario. We need a bodyguard, not State Department Barbie over there." She jerked a thumb in Lauren's direction.

"State Department Barbie?!" Lauren spat. "How dare you…?"

"Ms. Reed," Jack said in a booming voice that brought order. Vaughn consoled his wife as Jack then turned to Nicole. "If you are done name-calling, Ms. Smith—"

"Just calling it like I see it," Nicole broke in.

"Then I have to say I get your point, but I am a senior officer with the CIA and a very busy man indeed. I have better things to do than to provide protection for you and your charge."

Nicole's right eyebrow quirked. "Mm-hmm. So whatcha doing tonight?"


	8. Box

**Author's Notes: **_Sorry it took so long to complete an update! I actually have most of the next two chapter written; I just need to put on the finishing touches and things. I recently decided to take a different direction with some things, and I had to shift my thinking. But thanks to all who have kept up with this so far, and I wanna send a special shout-out to **princessderevko** for reading and reviewing. That kinda stuff keeps me going. You know how it is._

_When reading this scene, I always play "For the Love of Money" by the O'Jays. I can totally see Vaughn and Isabelle strutting into the bank to that song. Yeah, I'm slightly nuts, lol..._

**Chapter Seven**  
_Box_

In New York some hours later, Isabelle and Vaughn rode in a rented car driven by Weiss down the traffic-laden streets. As Weiss, dressed as a driver for an important, wealthy couple, navigated the road, Vaughn and Isabelle sat in the backseat, stonily silent.

Vaughn was clad in a dark gray suit with a white dress shirt undone at the collar. He was the picture of relaxed wealth, and his wedding ring still glinted on his left ring finger, the supposed compliment to the twinkling diamond on Isabelle's left hand. He didn't appear much different than he did when they left Los Angeles except for the faux wire-rimmed glasses he wore.

Isabelle, on the other hand, had taken a total one-eighty in her appearance; the sedate navy pant suit she'd wore to the briefing was traded in for a lightweight cowl-necked dress in a burnt sienna hue framed her curves coupled with pearls and a wide seal-brown belt that cinched her slim waist. The matching shoes were comfortable enough for her to walk in while enhancing her appearance and height. Makeup was slight and included subtle blush and her lips smoothly painted in a slightly darker tinge than the dress. Her dark curly hair was meticulously straightened and left to lushly cover her shoulders. Pearl earrings hung on her ears and completed the look.

Weiss flicked a glance in the rearview mirror at them then back at the road. Vaughn sat with his legs slightly apart but not touching Isabelle. Isabelle, meanwhile, had her hands in her lap. They both watched as the scenery of New York City passed them by. "I could probably hear a cockroach sneeze in this silence."

Neither one of them said anything.

"Come on, you two. What if you never get a chance to talk like this ever again except for on Jerry Springer?"

_Silence._

"Michael. Isabelle. Really. Let's be adults, okay? I know you're pissed at each other, but you have to at least act like you're on speaking terms. Though," Weiss added thoughtfully, "pretending like you've had a married spat could be just as believable."

_Crickets._

"That was not a spat," Isabelle said stiffly as she crossed her legs. "That was Michael being a macho chauvinist pig."

"I was not being a macho chauvinist pig," Vaughn countered. "I was trying to make sure that nothing happened to you while a known international terrorist was chasing you. And we won't even talk about the treatment of my wife."

"Nicole was only reacting to the vibes she was getting from your wife," Isabelle reminded him, the phrase _your wife_ coming out as if it tasted sour. She held her breath a second, trying to dispel the burning fury in her belly. She exhaled when she felt calmer and her words came out smoother, gentler. She didn't like the thought of quarrelling with him like _she_ was his wife. "Look, Michael, Eric has a point. We can't be angry at each other like this. I know what I did was impulsive, but the truth is, I had to do something." She turned toward him and placed her hand on his, covering the gold ring he wore. "Honestly, I don't want to think about what could have happened if I hadn't acted so quickly." She softened her expression and batted her eyelashes at him, using a technique she'd employed when they were better acquainted years ago.

"Aw, Isabelle, come on," Vaughn pleaded as he tried to look away. "Don't pull that act. It didn't work then, and it's not going to work now."

Vaughn stole a glance at her and Isabelle blinked coquettishly again. A second passed. A smile transformed Vaughn's features and they both broke out into laughter.

"God, Isabelle. Only you could pull that off." She did it again, and Vaughn laughed harder. "Iz, quit. You look like you have something in your eye."

As laughter tapered off, Isabelle's face sobered a bit. She looked at him with a bit of amazement. "Michael…you called me Iz. You have done that in years."

"Well, I haven't really seen you in years. How long has it been?"

"Truthfully, the last time you and I laid eyes on each other was after Sydney Bristow had been killed in a fire and my mother had succumbed to cervical cancer." She watched him as he swallowed once, hard. "And I don't think that qualified as a social visit."

They locked eyes then, and silence descended upon the backseat. Weiss glanced at them in the rearview after it seemed that it was too quiet. Isabelle had her forehead nestled in the crook of his neck; her expression now was filled with anguish. Vaughn had his arms wrapped around her, but the gesture was hardly romantic. He comforted her from a demon Weiss had no knowledge of. Something had changed in the moments of their meeting of the eyes, and now tears swam in Isabelle's eyes.

"If we find the Globe, what will that mean?" Isabelle asked in a soft whisper. She lifted her head and peered into Vaughn's eyes again. Her next statement, along with the dread in those green depths of her eyes, was so brief that it jolted him to the core. "I'm scared."

Right at that moment, Weiss stopped at the curb in front of the bank. The engine idled in the quiet. Isabelle straightened so that she was upright.

"We're here," Weiss informed them unnecessarily, as if they didn't know by the immense building to their right.

Isabelle closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, a ruse Vaughn knew she used when she wanted to get into a character. At that moment, she was preparing to play herself. Vaughn's hands rose to her shoulders and cupped them firmly. He made sure that her eyes were locked to his before he spoke.

"Do you want to go through with this?" Vaughn inquired, searching her eyes for any sign of subterfuge. If there was any there, he'd see it. He knew her well enough.

"That's a loaded question."

Vaughn gripped her shoulders with urgency. Only she would make such a bullshit comment at a time like this. "Isabelle. Do you, or don't you?" he pressed. "We can back out now. We can get on the plane and go back to Los Angeles. I can take you and Sophie and Nicole somewhere you will be safe until this is all over. Just tell me what you want to do."

Isabelle firmed her mouth and stared back at him. Fire lurked in those olive orbs and burned away all traces of fear. "If you think I'm going to back out now, then you must be out of your mind." She grabbed her brown bag and looked to Weiss. "Let's start the show, Eric."

Shrugging, Weiss complied. "Yes, ma'am." He switched on his communications link to Sydney. "Mountaineer, this is Retriever, checking in. Boy Scout and Big Bad Mama are on their way."

"Big Bad Mama?" Vaughn inquired. It was the first he'd heard of this.

"_We came up with it while you were in the bathroom on the plane,"_ Sydney said in his ear. "_I think it fits."_

"It figures you two would team up against me," Vaughn remarked. "Really, really cute."

"We women have to stick together." She turned to him as Weiss got out of the car so that he could let them out. "You know, for the record: if we'd ever gotten married, I'd've kept my name."

"Gee—did you burn your bra while I wasn't looking? You're more talented than I thought." For that remark, Vaughn earned a jab in the ribs. "Ouch. Remind me to never piss you off again."

"Duly noted." Isabelle inhaled deeply then exhaled. When she looked at him, her eyes were calm, cool, collected. She had an uncanny knack for shielding her eyes sometimes. "Are you ready?"

Vaughn met her gaze with the same unflappable calm. "Ready."

At that moment, Weiss opened the door and Isabelle waited a beat before sliding her slim legs out onto the sidewalk. She stepped gracefully out of the car, inciting more than a few stares as she righted herself and waited for Vaughn to exit the car as well. Weiss gazed at her and let out a low whistle.

"Knock 'em dead, Big Bad Mama," Weiss told her softly.

Isabelle said nothing but turned her head toward him slightly, lips curved in a smirk.

[----]

Meanwhile, Samara Lewis, now with bobbed auburn hair, watched as the duo entered the bank.

She herself was there in the guise of opening an account with the bank, and the over-eager account manager she'd encountered was currently extolling his palatial summer home in Tahiti. Pretending to be interested and knowing someplace deep inside that he was lying, she witnessed the woman stride up to the nearest bank teller and inquire about looking at the contents of her safe-deposit box. The teller stepped aside to alert the bank manager, who spied the well-dressed couple and hurried right over. Samara rolled her eyes as Isabelle charmed him with a smile and a few well-chosen words. She was such a good actress. Blah, blah, blah. Could they get on with it?

The bank manager led Isabelle and the guy to a computer nearby. She gave him the salient information, and he looked up the location of her box.

"So anyhow," the guy (who cared to remember his name?) simpered, "I spent a week there last July and I'm telling you I have never had so much fun." Then he leered at her as the sound of Isabelle's laughter met her ears. "Tell me, could you imagine lying on a beach full of white sand…"

It only took a second, but it was enough for Samara to see what she wanted to see. She flicked her eyes in Isabelle's direction and saw the bank manager leading them away to the safe deposit box. Her counterpart had placed his hand upon the small of her back in a gesture of familiarity. Well, well, well. It appeared that Isabelle knew this man. Who was he?

_Maybe we can use him,_ Samara mused as she looked back at her innocuous, unwitting quarry. "Actually, I prefer going _au naturel_," Samara drawled in the Southern accent that completed her disguise, allowing for enough heat to enter her voice to make him sweat. The funny thing was, if he had been observant enough, he would have noticed that those ice-like eyes were devoid of desire.

He tugged at his collar and loosened his tie. Yes, easy as pie. "You're quite…brave, Ms. Carlyle."

Samara chuckled at the statement. "Brave? Believe me, sugar, that's something I can never be." _You actually have to be afraid to be brave._ And Samara, so far, was incapable of any vestiges of fear.

Was it cocky of her to think so? Perhaps, or maybe she had overcome the shackles of apprehension in the realization that she owed no one any allegiance, even the smooth Julian Sark, with whom she had parted several hours before. Sark had cited an important bit of business he had to take care of. Despite the severity of his injuries, he had healed well, and she admired his diligence. But there had been something underneath his cool exterior, something hinting at a deeper problem. She hadn't asked even when he'd only told her that he was seeing an associate and that he would let her—and only her—know when he returned.

She didn't have the time to think about it at the moment, even though she was intrigued—and more than she liked to admit. She was on a mission now, and she was after whatever was in the box.

Forget dressing up and pretending to be that simpering idiot Isabelle Flannery. She was going to wait for the treasure to come to her. And Isabelle would be the one bringing it.

[----]

"So how long have we been in wedded bliss?" Mr. Arnold asked Isabelle and Vaughn as they walked down the corridor that led to the safe deposit boxes.

It had seemed, as Isabelle and Vaughn had had the dubious pleasure of finding out, that Lucas Arnold was a bona fide romantic. He had been married himself for sixteen years, and didn't hesitate to tell them so. Now he was grilling the couple like he was Chuck Woolery on _Love Connection_. It was disconcerting because they knew Sydney and Weiss could hear the whole exchange and would probably tease them about it later.

Behind his back, Isabelle and Vaughn shared a harried glance. In it, Isabelle designated Vaughn to respond to the question. Rolling his eyes, he replied in the voice of a happily married husband, "Oh, the two of us have been married for about eight years. It's been eight wonderful, glorious years." As Mr. Arnold glanced back, Vaughn sent Isabelle an adoring look. "She always said it was my boyish good looks and sensitivity that bowled her over. Wasn't it darling?"

Isabelle met his gaze with a twinkle in her eye. Vaughn recognized it; it usually appeared when she intended to cause some mischief. Aw hell. "Oh no, dear. It was the sex I came for." When Mr. Arnold's face blanched with shock, Isabelle executed a false head laugh and waved a hand at him. It seemed he was a romantic—in a _Leave It to Beaver_, sleep-in-separate-beds kind of way. "My love—he's such a kidder." She leaned in and added softly with a conspiratorial wink, "And a real animal in bed, if you must know."

Vaughn, sensing that Mr. Arnold was getting uncomfortable, nudged Isabelle. "Darling!" he admonished. "I don't think the nice man wants to know about the kinky stuff you like to do." He shifted to Mr. Arnold and managed to look exasperated. "I had to get her to leave the whips and chains at home."

"Me?" Isabelle exclaimed hotly, arms crossed over her chest. "I'm not the one who has the shipment from Hustler every month. I'd think by now Hugh Hefner would be jealous."

Mr. Arnold, expression pinched, looked at his watch. "Ah yes, I have an appointment I have to keep." He turned and quickly found the box he was looking for. He inserted the key into the lock and then turned to the duo with a bit less finesse than before. "I will leave you two to…" He took in their faces, remembered what he had just learned about the sharply-dressed gentleman and the beautiful, classy-looking woman. "To do." He waved a hand in dismissal, then left.

After a few beats, Vaughn and Isabelle shared a look. Then they succumbed to giggles.

When they were recovering from their mirth, Isabelle sighed heavily and shook her head. "I thought we'd never get rid of him."

"You're telling me." He quirked an eyebrow at her. "_Oh no, dear._ _It was the sex I came for?"_

"_I don't think the man wants to know about the kinky stuff you like to do?"_ Isabelle shot back, mimicking his tone exactly. "Yeah, really nice. He's going to go tell all of his puritanical friends that I'm a superfreak and I'm going to get phone calls to do porno movies."

"_If she does one, tell her I'll be first in line to buy it,"_ Weiss quipped in Vaughn's ear. "_I support all kinds of artistic endeavors."_

"I bet you do," Vaughn muttered wryly. Vaughn nodded at the box in front of them when Isabelle tilted her head at him. "So let's see what's inside." When he spoke again, he addressed Sydney and Weiss while Isabelle moved to extract the box. "How are we looking, guys?"

"_I've got no strange frequencies over here, Boy Scout,"_ Sydney responded. "_What about you, Retriever? Or are you stuck imagining Big Bad Mama in garters with a whip?"_

"_Very funny._ _Got nothing but friendlies in my vision. And by the way,"_ Weiss added after a pause_, "we are so going to get some meatball subs after this. Tell me, does you-know-who know about your Hustler fetish?"_

Vaughn chuckled and said, "I'm not going to live that down aren't I?" Isabelle looked at him inquisitively. "How do you feel about eating a meatball sub after all of this is over?" he asked her.

One side of Isabelle's coral-hued mouth twitched. "Put extra marinara and Swiss on mine." She pursed her lips as she eased the box from the compartment. "All right. Here she comes." Isabelle held the box gingerly as if she were afraid she was going to drop it, and if she did, it would shatter into a million pieces. Vaughn found himself holding his breath in anticipation as Isabelle moved the box to the table nearby.

They locked eyes for a couple of beats, green on green. Vaughn could see that some of Isabelle's shield had slipped and he could see the blend of fear and curiosity in her eyes. He firmed his mouth and tried to send her some reassurance through his own. She bit her lip and looked down at her hand. Vaughn followed her gaze as she moved her hands from the box slowly.

Isabelle asked softly in a voice that reminded him of Sophie for some reason, "You wanna open it?"

"What the hell?!" Vaughn uttered in disbelief. "Iz, you open it. It's your box, dammit."

Isabelle blew out a breath through her lips. "Okay, okay. Fine." With a furrow of her eyebrows, Isabelle lifted the lid on the metal box. Vaughn noticed that she'd breathed in sharply right before as if she were diving into the ocean. Honestly, he didn't blame her. If there was something inside that box of any importance, it would change her life forever. And his, too.

The first thing they spied was a framed photograph of Isabelle and her siblings, taken when her stepsiblings were teens. Softness came into her eyes then as she took in the faces of her family and picked the picture up. She allowed herself to linger on it briefly before moving to the other contents of the box. She fingered a string of diamonds as Vaughn moved aside various belongings and touched a strange steel canister that Isabelle had never seen before. It was about six inches long and about the circumference of a flashlight.

"What is that?" Isabelle wanted to know. "I've never…" She raised her eyes to Vaughn's as the agent in him surfaced. "Could that be…?"

Vaughn contacted his fellow agents then. "It looks like we've got something here." He lifted the canister, twisted the cap open with his gaze on Isabelle. When he upended it, yellowed paper slid out, weakened by time. Hands trembling slightly, Vaughn extracted one of the aged sheets and gently unrolled it. He perused the paper, looking for something that was familiar to him. It was written in a jumble of words and letters that made no sense to him, but the fact that it didn't make sense to him had a strange feeling snaking up his spine. When it dawned on him what the paper and its mates resembled, he paled and his face went slack.

"_What is it, man?"_ Weiss pressed. "_What's going on?"_

Spying the look in his eyes, Isabelle's lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but she couldn't force the words from her lips. And he didn't have to speak; his stare told her all she needed to know.

"_Boy Scout?"_ Sydney's voice came through this time, and she sounded very concerned. "_Tell us what you've got."_

"It's a canister," Vaughn finally said. "It has old and yellowed papers inside. And the writing…" Isabelle's head tilted in confusion as silence lapsed for a moment. "The handwriting looks like Rambaldi's. But I can't be too sure."

"Rambaldi?" Isabelle repeated, head straight. Vaughn didn't address her but spoke to his co-workers instead, turning away a bit. Isabelle's eyes fell to the box again as her mind raced, and her thoughts stopped dead in their tracks when she spied the corner of a worn envelope sticking out of the frame of the photo she'd been looking at. Wondering what it meant, Isabelle pulled it from its hiding place and placed it in her purse. She would show it to Vaughn later.

[----]

Sydney sat in the van parked across the street from the bank, monitoring the screens in front of her and listening to the voices of her co-workers in her ear.

The conversation that Isabelle and Vaughn had carried on with the bank manager made her want to retch. Not because she was jealous at any implied closeness between the two; she, hearing the exchange through Vaughn, had caught every nauseating cadence of Lucas Arnold's voice. She could understand why it had made Isabelle and Vaughn uncomfortable with its over-cloying quality. However, the easy tones of her allies indicated that they'd had some sort of reconciliation in the car before the communication links were switched on, and that made Sydney a little less tense—and a bit envious, too. She hadn't had a moment to be alone with Vaughn since Valladolid, and neither one of them had brought up the accident that had occurred before their trek to Isabelle's house since.

Sydney was brought back to Earth when she heard Isabelle say, "_Oh no, dear—it was the sex I came for."_ She felt a bit of impish enjoyment when they had cleverly dispatched the busybody Arnold and got down to business. She imagined Lauren would be quite shocked at hearing her husband being talked about that way.

Sydney listened in anticipation as Isabelle and Vaughn opened the box and perused its contents. Her heart dropped into her stomach when she heard the dreaded word come across Vaughn's lips: _Rambaldi._

_Not her, too. _

Sydney cursed silently as Vaughn spoke to her and Weiss. She heard Isabelle putting the box back into its compartment in the background and wondered how she was taking this. From the sounds of it, she was concealing whatever emotions were coursing through her at the moment, talking politely to everyone and even stopping to sign an autograph. Sydney checked her equipment again to make sure that their communications weren't being eavesdropped upon. So far so good.

That is, until a loud crash came through and angry shouts followed. There was quite a bit of shuffling, and Sydney got no reply from either agent when she asked what was going on.

"_Iz, are you all right?"_ Vaughn inquired.

"_She took my purse!"_ Isabelle exclaimed breathlessly. "_It has—"_ Suddenly Isabelle's voice grew faint and the sounds of background noise and Vaughn's heavy breathing intensified. "_Michael! Michael, come back!"_

"Retriever, do you copy?" Sydney inquired hurriedly into her mouthpiece. "Retriever!"

Weiss finally clicked in. "_Mountaineer—the artifact has been swiped by an unknown woman. Boy Scout is tracking her now."_

Her heart leapt in her throat, and before she could stop herself, Sydney had her weapon and was darting out into the melee of traffic toward the chase.

She carefully dodged oncoming traffic, gauging her path by the rapid string of words in her ear. She spotted Vaughn first, his blazer flapping out behind him. He was on the heels of a svelte redhead in stilettos. The woman ran rather skillfully for a person wearing stilts.

The pursuit led into a deserted alley. When Sydney arrived on the scene side-by-side with Weiss and Isabelle, who had managed to keep up despite her own heels, Vaughn was grappling with the woman. Isabelle's seal-brown purse was on the ground. The woman pushed Vaughn off of her and whipped out a gun. Without hesitation, she shot him as he tried to scramble to his feet.

Vaughn went down, hard, as the sound of the gunshot echoed through the alley. More shocked than hurt, Vaughn stumbled to his knees. The mysterious woman came toward him, ready to reclaim her treasure, but fled as Sydney, Weiss, and Isabelle came running onto the scene and to the aid of the fallen Michael Vaughn. As she hurried away with Weiss on her heels, Vaughn noticed the blood gleaming on her skinned knee.

"My God—Michael!" Isabelle cried.

"Vaughn, where are you shot?" Sydney inquired briskly, trying to put a clamp on the concern that threatened to shatter her calm.

Vaughn, breathing heavily and green eyes glassy with pain, held up Isabelle's purse which contained the canister. "I got it."

"That wasn't the right answer, you idiot!" Isabelle exclaimed angrily, looking like she wanted to hit him despite his existing injuries. She took the purse from him as Sydney helped him to his feet. "You could have gotten yourself killed going after that person. Is this really that important?"

Vaughn didn't get to answer, which was probably a good thing; Isabelle would have probably lopped his head off in her current mood. Weiss, panting heavily, returned and shifted their attention. He was alone, and judging from the rumpled state of his clothes, he hadn't caught up with Vaughn's assailant.

"I didn't catch her," Weiss told the group. He inhaled deeply to try to calm his breathing, then exhaled slowly after a few moments. "She hopped into some car and sped off. I got the plates and hopefully that'll help when we get back to HQ." He nodded at Vaughn. "How's he doing?"

"Apparently, he's just hard-headed enough to pass," Isabelle retorted.

"I can speak for myself, thank you," Vaughn snapped.

"We'd better get back to Los Angeles before Isabelle and Vaughn maim each other," Sydney suggested to Weiss as Isabelle and Vaughn temporarily abandoned their truce. The other agent tiredly agreed.


	9. Convergence

**Chapter Eight  
**_Convergence_

_* **Author's Notes:** This chapter is mostly exposition that gives a bit of insight on Isabelle, Sophie, and Nicole, though, I couldn't resist throwing in a scene with the dearly beloved Mrs. Vaughn and Sark. Their scene will remind you of a similarly themed scene in "After Six" (if memory serves). "Live or Let Die," Our Town, and A Doll's House aren't mine. They belong to Wings, Thornton Wilder, and Henrik Ibsen, respectively._

_* "**Woman"** is originally performed by Maroon 5. Written by Jesse Carmichael, Ryan Dusick, Adam Levine, Michael Madden, and James Valentine. _

_**Full Name:**_ _Isabelle Esperanza Flannery  
__**Birth Name:**_ _Isabelle Esperanza Garza de Fuentes  
__**Date of Birth:**_ _January 10, 1969  
__**Place of Birth:**_ _New York City, New York  
__**Place(s) of Residence:**_ _Valladolid, Spain; Gracia, California; New York City, New York  
__**Hair:**_ _Dark Brown  
__**Eyes:**_ _Green  
__**Height:**_ _5'5"  
__**Occupation:**_ _Actress, musician, teacher  
__**Education:**_ _Bachelor of the Arts in Drama from New York_ _University; Master of the Sciences in Education from the University_ _of Valladolid  
__**Parents:**_ _Maria Celina Fuentes (Mother, deceased), Alejandro Estaban Garza (Father, deceased), Jason Isaac Flannery (Stepfather), Delia Maureen Tomas (Stepmother)  
__**Siblings:**_ _Jonathan Lamar Flannery (Brother, deceased), James Lisandro Flannery (Stepbrother), Darcy Aileen Flannery (Stepsister), Graciela Rosaura Garza de Tomas (Stepsister)  
__**Other Relatives:**_ _Sophia Amelie Flannery (Daughter)  
__**Criminal Record:**_ _None  
__**Filmography:**_ _The Summer House (1979), Wicked (1981), Vice and Virtue (1982), The Moonlight Junction (1984), Sweet Oblivion (1986), The Year of the Tiger (1987), Legacy (1989), Meltdown (1990), The Devil You Know (1991), The Upside to Goodbye (1992), Clash (1993), Reverse and Reckoning (1994), Comin' Out (1995), Whirlwind (1997), The Love-Me-Nots (1998)  
__**Discography:**_ "_Shackles", "Live and Let Die" (from Wicked); "You Better Get It" (from Comin' Out); "Isolde's Lullaby" "The Queen's Serenity", "The Time Has Come" (from Whirlwind); "Sweetheart" (from The Love-Me-Nots)  
__**Stage:**_ _Verve: The Musical (1977), Fortune's Fools (1978) Our Town (1985), A Doll's House (1990)_

Scanning Isabelle Flannery's stats gave Jack a bit of insight on what he had already known. The woman he had met just mere hours before seemed the careful type, the kind that would live within her means and avoid breaking the law. Even though she'd inherited half of her genes with Alejandro Garza, she had taken Jason Flannery's name upon his marriage to her late mother. Isabelle had no criminal record, no whiffs of anything circumspect that indicated any criminal activity that escaped prying eyes. She had lived a quiet life, sliding into stage work shortly after she had become Isabelle Flannery, continuing with supporting roles in movies until taking lead roles in a string of films until her brother had died and Sophie had been born. Her venture into music in Europe lasted a couple of years; subsequently she became a teacher and disappeared from the limelight, adjusting easily back into normalcy.

He heard the sound of Nicole instructing Sophie on her math, and on that vein decided that he wanted to know more about the young woman who seemed to be attached to Isabelle's hip. Much to his puzzlement, there was much unknown about the blunt young woman.

_**Full Name:**_ _Nicole Smith  
__**Date of Birth:**_ _Unknown  
__**Place of Birth:**_ _Unknown  
__**Place(s) of Residence:**_ _Valladolid, Spain  
__**Hair:**_ _Dark Brown  
__**Eyes:**_ _Brown  
__**Height:**_ _5'3"  
__**Occupation:**_ _Administrative Assistant  
__**Education:**_ _B.A. in English from New York_ _University_—

"If you wanna know anything, all you gotta do is ask, Jack."

A man like Jack Bristow didn't jump when he was startled or whirl around when he was suddenly surprised by a young woman like Nicole Smith. He didn't even look away from the screen as he scanned the information shown to him. He didn't even flinch. He was so stone cold that he simply said, "I prefer my way of doing things, Ms. Smith."

Nicole crossed her arms over her chest. On top of being displaced from her home, being chased, shot at, and irritated by the aforementioned State Department Barbie, the fact that her CIA-appointed baby sitter (so to speak) was looking up her stats was deeply disconcerting. "Mm-hmm. Coward."

Jack's brows merely furrowed in a slight sign of astonishment. "Are you calling me a coward, Ms. Smith?"

He had intimidated others in the past, but it seemed there would no easily shaking Nicole Smith. "As I told you before, I call it like I see it."

"Due to your age and experience, Ms. Smith, I doubt you can see past your nose."

"Age ain't nothing but a number. And _additionally_"—the adverb spewed from her mouth in five clipped syllables—"you have no clue what I have experienced without asking me first." She shifted to her other foot. "So what you wanna know?"

Before Jack could open his mouth and speak, Sophia Flannery came bounding into the room, her dark brown curls bouncing around her cherubic face. He felt rather than saw the change in Nicole. Her stance relaxed and tension ebbed out of her young face. When she faced the little girl, her expression was patient, her tone light.

"Nicole, Nicole!" Sophie exclaimed. When she was sure she had Nicole's attention, her expression changed, her mouth falling into a familiar pout.

"What's the matter, Fee-Fee?" Nicole inquired the pouting girl in her midst. Jack noted that her voice was devoid of any strains of displeasure. It lifted his estimation of her a few notches. Just a few.

"I can't do my math homework," Sophie responded sullenly.

"Is it too hard?" Nicole queried. Sophie shook her head and Nicole's right eyebrow arched. "Or is it that you don't _wanna_ do it?"

"Fractions are dumb," Sophie commented. "I don't know why we need them. You don't need them to watch cartoons or play kickball." She crossed her arms over her diminutive chest and pointed out with emphasis, "Mami doesn't need fractions. So why should I?"

Jack, noting her defiant stance and her surly tone, figured the problem was probably not with the deplorable fractions themselves (as annoying as they could be at times) but with the fact that Isabelle was not there at the moment. While he would have been slightly annoyed at Sophie's attitude any other time, Jack found himself feeling a small measure of understanding. Before Nicole could speak, the agent broke in.

"Everyone needs fractions, Miss Flannery." Sophie shifted her green-eyed gaze to him, those eyes wide with shock. There was something about them that was familiar but Jack could not put his finger on what it was so he inwardly shook it off. "Even my daughter had math homework when she was little."

"I bet she doesn't use fractions," Sophie pouted, not desisting in finding a way to get out of her math homework.

"Perhaps you can ask her the next you see her." At Sophie's inquisitive frown, Jack added, "Agent Bristow is my daughter."

Sophie blinked in confusion. "I thought _you_ were Agent Bristow." Suddenly, as comprehension dawned, her eyes went huge with awe. "_You_ are Agent Sydney's daddy?"

"Yes I am," Jack replied, a little amused at her childish amazement. But then again, he figured that someone as shrewd and physically dexterous as his daughter in the eyes of a seven-year-old would seem like a superheroine. So then, by association, that would make him almost godlike.

Fractions forgotten, Sophie bounded up next to Jack. Nicole took a step back and merely watched, enthralled by the scene before her. "Is her mommy an agent, too?" Sophie paused to consider this, infantile brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Maybe she uses a gun on the bad guys…"

Jack thought of Irina then, and when he did, something flitted in his brown eyes that had Nicole reassessing him. It was a strange moment, something she had no experience in her twenty and some odd years to describe. When he did speak again, Nicole was perceptive enough to notice the strained thought slightly nostalgic tone of his voice. He didn't want to talk about this—or did he?

"Sydney's mother was not an agent," Jack told Sophie and watched as she lost some of her awe. As young as she was, there was some perceptiveness in her that was beyond her seven years. Her next statement proved it as she tilted her head at him with those large green eyes taking in his every move.

"But she's not here is she? She went up to Heaven like Uncle John."

Imagining Irina crossing the pearly gates of Heaven made Jack chuckle. Sophie frowned at him again, not understanding his sudden show of mirth. "Oh no—Sydney's mother is definitely not with us, but she's not in Heaven either."

Sophie's clapped her hands over her mouth as if she had made a major blunder. "Oh no!" she cried passionately. She lowered her voice to a whisper as if they were sharing a secret. "Was she _bad_?"

Nicole stole a peek at Jack's face and found that he was trying to keep his face schooled to stern lines. She pursed her own lips to keep from snickering. They locked eyes and Nicole summarily dismissed Sophie to finish her math, feeling that the loss of her composure was imminent.

Sophie grumbled at the sentence but bounded out energetically, tossing out a bright _see you later!_ to Mr. Agent Bristow.

When they were alone, Nicole bowed her head and cleared her throat. When she lifted her head, her expression was carefully bland. It had to be, or the whole dynamic would implode—and who then would clean up the mess?

"I didn't think she'd give you the third degree about Sydney's mama and all that," Nicole admitted with a smidgen of sheepishness. She shrugged and added, "Sorry."

Jack placed his entwined hands on the tabletop and addressed her rather diplomatically. "I am curious as to how you found out about Sydney's mother. How much do you know?"

"I just know that y'all thought she was dead and she wasn't," Nicole told him, casually lacing her thumbs in her beltloops. "If there's more to it, I don't know it." She raised an eyebrow again as she read his expression. "There's more to it. But I don't wanna know. I know enough, thank you."

Jack's face went carefully blank as hers did earlier. "I don't have to respond to that."

"You already did." She glanced at the laptop in front of Jack, considered a new tack. "But if it bothers you, I can tell you everything I know. No strings attached."

It was Jack's turn to consider the young woman in his midst. Facts and figures only gave an incomplete picture of a whole person, and for Nicole Smith there was not much of either to be had. So he was forced to go right to the source. He wondered what the catch was and didn't bother hiding that train of thought.

"Will you answer any question I have? On any subject?"

"As long as you don't ask me silly teenybopper shit like what my favorite color is or something."

She obviously didn't have anything to hide, but still Jack wondered what her motivations were. "Agreed. Ms. Smith," Jack began as she turned to walk away, "why are you doing this?"

The answer didn't require much thought, which told him that she meant it. Either that or she was good at lying on a dime. "Despite your overwhelming and not-so-subtle suspicion of me and Izzy and Sophie, I kinda wanna help." Nicole shrugged again. "Call me crazy, I guess."

"For lack of a better word," Jack murmured, turning back to the computer screen. Getting that he was trying for some dry humor, Nicole said nothing but rolled her eyes and left the room to check on Sophie.

[----]

Lauren Reed was a woman of many facets.

One moment, she could be vulnerable and needy, and in the next she could be cool and calculating. Her persona as loving wife to Michael Vaughn could be accessed as easily as flicking on a light switch, and right now, as she walked idly down the aisle at the neighborhood grocery store, the dimmer knob was turned to medium. Her husband was on an assignment in New York City, so she didn't have to be ever-so-wifely. She could appear like a wife while not having to overly act like one.

Lauren savored these moments. Because, while being Michael Vaughn's wife has some advantages, at the end of the day, it was just a job. An assignment.

She worked for the bad guys.

No, you wouldn't have guessed that the attractive blonde in jeans and a green top was a spy, that she was gathering and passing along intelligence for a terrorist organization. Of course, that didn't make her any less of what she was. It just made her good at what she did.

It just so happened that she was thinking about the man known as her husband. And, because of her job, wondered if he was hurt—or dead.

She had passed along the intelligence on the Globe to her handler but gleaned no new information from him when she had noticed his visible shock. In the absence of her handler's explanation, Lauren wondered what was so important about the Globe. But, then again, every Rambaldi artifact was like a puzzle piece, and every fragment was an important part of a whole. That was what the rational part of her figured; however, her gut told her that there was another reason behind it entirely.

_If I be so inclined to climb up beside you,  
Would you tell me that the time just isn't right?_

She mused upon this as she fingered a jar of spaghetti sauce. No way in hell that Isabelle Flannery could really be connected to the Globe. It was bad enough everyone thought of Sydney Bristow as the Chosen One, but to have Isabelle linked to this as well?

"I prefer to have someone make it for me myself," said a familiar male voice over her shoulder.

_And if I ever find the key you hide so well,  
Will you tell me that I can spend the night?_

No amount of composure could hide Lauren's shock when she turned to find Julian Sark, alive and well despite his injuries, behind her. Mundanely casual—or even smug, Sark was clad in jeans, a dark blue collared shirt and a dark blazer. She could see the faintest outline of the bandage on his chest and the one that covered the stitches on his neck was visible just above his collar.

_Leavin' your smell on my coat, leavin' your taste on my shoulder.  
I still fail to understand what it is about this woman._

When she didn't say anything, he continued. "I was quite surprised to find, after our little encounter in the parking garage, that you were our organization's mole within the CIA." She lifted her chin, saying nothing, and waited for him to get to the point. "I have to admit, Ms. Reed, your talents are extraordinary. I took the liberty of doing some research before I came across you here. I have to say, your work is quite impressive."

"While you were detained?" Lauren asked in a slightly ironic tone, stepping away to look at the boxed pasta. She was slightly wary of him and flattered at the same time, and wariness was so far battling flattery to the dirt. "I heard about your unfortunate encounter with my husband and his former lover."

"It seems Alejandro Garza passed on his gifts of marksmanship to his offspring," Sark remarked from behind her, "but you have my firm assurance that Isabelle Flannery will regret causing me physical harm. In the meantime, this meeting deals with bigger issues."

Lauren paused by the angel hair pasta. "Oh? What issues could you possibly mean? And how do they involve me?"

"Quite frankly, Ms. Reed, I'm tired of taking orders when I should be the one making them. I know you were ordered to kill my father," he admitted, slightly gratified to see her back tense. "However, I understand that, like me, you were dispatched to do a job. The circumstances that led me to Isabelle Flannery's home were set in motion by the Covenant—an organization into which I have put considerable financial backing. It is because of the Covenant that I had to have a bullet hole taken out of my chest over a day ago." He lowered his voice, but it wasn't like anyone was paying attention to them anyway. "I think it's time you and I joined forces, Ms. Reed. I think you dislike being a puppet as well as I do."

_If I could bottle up the chills that you give me  
I would keep them in a jar next to my bed._

Sark looked deadly serious when she turned to him. She watched him carefully for any signs of subterfuge, as she was well-trained in seeking them out. But she saw nothing; either he was adept at hiding his true intentions or he really meant every word he'd said.

_And If I should ever draw a picture of a woman  
It is you that would come flowing from my pen._

"So you would like to join forces with me and stage a _coup_?" Lauren asked. She trailed a finger idly down a box of penne pasta as she considered the move. After all, her usefulness as Michael Vaughn's wife was questionable with Isabelle Flannery now in the picture. Lauren'd had to contend with Sydney Bristow as a potential roadblock in the beginning, and another had been thrown in her path in the form of the ethereal Isabelle. She wasn't a simpleton; Lauren had sensed the history that the other woman shared with her husband from the instant she'd come into Lauren's sight. She needed insurance. She needed a stronger ally. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed Julian Sark.

_Leavin' your smell on my coat, leavin' your taste on my shoulder.  
I still fail to understand what it is about this woman._

She'd no sooner come to this conclusion when Sark stepped forward, so close to her that she could feel the heat pumping off of him. The sensation was mildly erotic, and she relished it like a cat being scratched on its belly after deprived of touch. After all, it had been a long time since she had been this close to any other man than Vaughn. It was new. It was distinctive. It was forbidden.

"So what do you think?" Sark asked, his breath warm on her ear. "You and I, working together?"

_Helplessly melting as I stand next to the sun.  
As she burns me, I am screaming out for more  
Drink every drop of liquid, heap that I've become.  
Pop me open, spoon me out on to the floor._

Clutching the box of penne in her hand, Lauren turned to face Sark. If she even so much as sneezed or hiccupped, their lips would touch. The thought made the close proximity even more stimulating.

_Leavin' your smell on my coat, leavin' your taste on my shoulder.  
I still fail to understand, fail to understand_

_Leavin' your smell on my coat, leavin' your taste on my shoulder.  
I still fail to understand what it is about this woman._

"It sounds like a plan." Lauren shifted away and their bodies touched for an instant. It was like a sample of perfume, intriguing and alluring. She'd already made her mind up to try it someday. It was just a question of when and where.

[----]

After Sophie had been bathed, read to, and tucked into bed, Jack and Nicole sat at Sydney's dining room table with a bottle of single-malt scotch between them. Nicole had claimed that she could hold her liquor like a man, so Jack was putting her to the test. He also figured it would act like a truth serum, to an extent, and allow for Nicole to lower her defenses. Whatever they were.

When Jack slid the bottle across the tabletop to Nicole, she frowned and stopped it with her hand. His mouth quirked in what looked like a smile—well, at least for Jack Bristow. "Oh, ladies first, Ms. Smith. I would be remiss if I took the first drink."

Nicole chuckled and shook her head. "How cute of you." She stared at him a moment longer then poured herself a couple of fingers of scotch in her glass. Without hesitating, she downed the contents of her glass without a flinch. She stared at him, her expression saying, _Whatcha got to say now?_

Jack nodded slightly. "I see that you're a bit more resilient than you look. Let's see how long that lasts."

"Yes. Let's." She slid the bottle in his direction. "And the name's Nicole. It makes me feel like I'm in trouble when you call me Ms. Smith in that high-school-principal voice of yours."

"Fair enough." Jack poured himself some liquor, downed it. "Then you can start by telling me why it is that most of the dossier that the CIA has on you has been carefully edited, _Nicole_."

There was a long pause as this sunk in. Nicole's eyebrows knitted together in a show of genuine shock. "Edited how?" He merely stared her down without speaking and she rolled her eyes to the sky. "Look, if there's something you want to know about me, just ask." She lifted a shoulder in a dismissive gesture. "A lot of crazy things have happened when…I was a child, and I don't know why my dossier has been edited. Maybe somebody don't want everybody to know about me. I can't tell you. I ain't a psychic and don't claim to be."

"So what about your family?" Jack inquired.

"You know about my family," Nicole shot back sharply. Jack's eyebrows rose at the firmness of her tone, and he nudged the bottle back in Nicole's direction. She hastily poured herself another scotch then swallowed it furiously. "Isabelle and Sophie are my only family. I…" She pursed her full lips together as her nostrils flared and her jaw moved. When she had reached some semblance of calm, she spoke again. "I don't remember that much before Isabelle found me."

"Isabelle found you?" Jack asked, incredulous. "How did she find you? Did she just stumble across you in the street like an errant pebble? What do you mean by she 'found' you?"

"I don't know what happened exactly. All I know is, one day I'm with her and her big brother John. And she's been in my life ever since." Nicole scratched her upper arm, an absent gesture. "I don't remember much about what happened after that. John wasn't exactly that forthcoming with the details, and by what he did say, I figured I didn't want to know."

"So you don't know where you were born."

"No."

"Or who your parents are."

"Hell no. I mean, at this rate, you could probably uncover more than I could. You've got the damn CIA clearance at your fingertips. All I've got is a blank memory of the first decade of my life and a dead cop who probably knew more than he was saying."

Nicole had a point. Jack had the connections and his standing as a senior officer with the CIA. The more she told him, the more he wondered where she came from—and the tugging need (something he could not explain or will away) to find out almost distracted him from evaluating her testimony. "The whole scenario looks circumspect, Nicole. I'm a bit shocked you didn't question your origins or the circumstances which led you to Isabelle and Jonathan Flannery."

"Living with Isabelle seemed a better deal than whatever I'd come from—according to John. I didn't see any reason to think he was lying, though now I have a few questions for him that neither Isabelle nor I can answer." Nicole slid the bottle across the table top in his direction and she lifted her own glass to her lips and took a sip. It seemed prudence was becoming paramount. "If you're worried about Isabelle, I wouldn't be. I mean, I know you're supposed to, you know, wonder what people's motives are and whatever."

Jack picked up the bottle and poured a couple of fingers of the amber-colored liquid into his glass. "And what are Isabelle's motives?"

"Honestly, Jack?" Jack said nothing, just stared at her in interest. "To make sure the ones she loves are happy and safe. That's it." Nicole gulped down more liquor then sighed. "Whether we like it or not, Michael Vaughn is one of them."

"Do you have a problem with Agent Vaughn, Nicole?"

Nicole leaned back in her chair and tilted her head as she considered the question. Watching her, taking her in, Jack realized that she was shrewder than he took her for. Underneath the attitude and inability for tact was an intelligent young woman with heart and guts. She was capable of subterfuge—what smart woman wouldn't be?—but Nicole knew that the truth was better most of the time.

"Do I have a problem with Agent Vaughn?" Nicole repeated. "Yes…and no. I was there when they found out John had died, and the man treated her the way she needed to be treated, like they were in it together. So then, no." She paused to sigh then. "They slept together for the first time not too long after that. I could wish it didn't happen but it did, so we'll deal with that.

"Now, however, is another story. My biggest problem with him is that he didn't tell his wife about Isabelle and that tears her up inside because she doesn't want to cause any discord in his marriage. And it shouldn't be her problem but his."

"What's the big secret? I'm just wondering, because if Isabelle and Vaughn were in some kind of romantic relationship, that part is extraordinarily apparent." Jack slid the bottle back in her direction as he laid that question upon her. Your turn, he challenged without speaking.

Nicole stopped the bottle with her hand so abruptly that the liquid sloshed around in the bottle. She sent him a mirthless smile. "You mean, you didn't see it?" Jack remained silent, so Nicole accepted that as an answer in the negative. "You mean, you didn't notice it once when you were in their presence. Not once?" She leaned forward then as her brown eyes filled with a small measure of urgency. "Go in there and look at that little girl sleeping and tell me that you don't see it."

It didn't take long for Jack to put it together. It had been hovering in the back of his mind like a bird, ready to swoop down at the right moment. "Sophie Flannery is Vaughn's daughter."

Nicole chuckled sardonically. "What does he win, Bob?"

"And Vaughn has known all along."

Nicole raised a hand. She could hear the implied condemnation in his tone. "Now that is not true. He hasn't known from the beginning." As she recalled things from her memory, her face blanked, her eyes unfocused. "Isabelle didn't tell him until after Garza threatened to kill him."

Jack's brow furrowed. "Alejandro Garza threatened to kill Michael Vaughn? Why?"

"First of all," Nicole started, "Izzy's daddy thought that he had something to do with John's death. If you don't know the story surrounding it, then you can probably look up all the sealed stuff; Isabelle didn't tell me too much because she simply didn't want me to know. Or maybe she wasn't told everything. Not to mention, he'd knocked his daughter up and wouldn't claim the child. That, actually, was Isabelle's fault, but when she'd tried to tell her father, he blew up and threatened to kill him. This was not long after Vaughn married Bar—I mean, well, you know.

"Anyway, Isabelle, because she knew that her father knew that she was still in contact with Vaughn, told him the truth about Sophie. But she also told him that she was limiting their contact and he should leave her the hell alone. Even though they had their falling out, Isabelle didn't want to take the chance that her daddy would kill him."

Jack imagined the stubborn Vaughn and his reaction to Isabelle's restrictions. "That must have gone over well."

"You ain't never lyin'." Nicole exhaled slowly. "Vaughn had known Sophie existed all along, he just didn't know who her father was. When…" Nicole appeared worried then, so Jack figured she was about to tell him something she didn't want to hear. "After he'd thought your daughter was dead, he came to see Isabelle. Probably the last time they saw each other before the other day. Isabelle had trusted me to take care of Sophie while she visited with him." Nicole fingered the rim of the glass but didn't lift it to drink its contents. "When she came home, she spent two hours crying, with her head in my lap. She said she could see the desolation in his eyes mirrored in his soul. She held his hand and it felt cold like the life was being sucked out of him. And I'd asked her why she didn't tell him. She'd said—and this is what she'd told him—she didn't want him to feel he was supposed to be tied down to her. She also didn't want to give him that shock of finding out he was a father on top of his grief for Sydney. She didn't tell him that. But I didn't understand, but she knew him better than I did.

"When a single woman has a baby, everyone's always on the guy to marry her and stuff, and yeah, I understand it, but does it have to be that way? Honestly? And she knew Vaughn would be after doing the right thing. Just think if Sydney had come back and he was married to Isabelle." Nicole shook her head. "I mean, damn. That would be worse than anything with Sophie involved."

"A child in the midst of any of this is an invitation for trouble," Jack remarked.

Nicole gave a firm, decisive nod. "Truer words."

The front door opened then, and voices filled the entryway. There were more than a few bumps and curses, Jack and Nicole shared a look. What had happened?


	10. Interlude

**Chapter Nine  
**_Interlude_

_***"Run to You"** originally performed by Bryan Adams. Written by Bryan Adams and Jim Vallance._

Moments later, Sydney appeared, flanked by Isabelle and Vaughn. Vaughn was leaning heavily on Isabelle, his gait awkward. Nicole rose to her feet so abruptly that the legs of the chair made a grating sound on the floor. Isabelle swallowed as she helped Vaughn into one of the free chairs.

"You are so damn stubborn, you know that?" Isabelle chided Vaughn as she leaned over him. "Always trying to be a macho man when you get hurt."

"You need to go to a hospital," Sydney added, a little more gentle than Isabelle. "I know it was just a flesh wound—"

"Would you two stop ganging up on me?" Vaughn snapped angrily. "I am not a child with a damned skinned knee."

"Funny how you just went and proved it," Nicole pointed out with a twitch of her lips. Vaughn sent her a glare and the twitch became a full-out smile.

"What happened in New York?" Jack wanted to know.

The trio shared a glance before Sydney spoke. "We found something in the box." Wordlessly, she pulled out the canister for her father's perusal. As he looked at its contents gingerly, Sydney noticed the liquor out on the table. Her brow lifted as her gaze went from her father to Nicole. Nicole tilted her head inquisitively.

"Were you two playing a drinking game or something?" Sydney inquired.

Nicole snickered. "Shoot, no. Could you see your daddy playing a drinking game? Saying that your father was playing Larry King or something would be more apt." As Jack's own brow rose behind Nicole's back, she yawned broadly and stretched her limbs. "Well, I've had a long day. If y'all will excuse me…"

Nicole breezed out of the room, leaving the others in their silence and taking the mirth with her. Sydney picked up the bottle of whiskey and put it away, her face set in disapproving lines. Isabelle watched Jack for his reaction while Vaughn watched her for hers.

After a moment, Jack remarked, "We have no way of knowing what these are without proper testing and perusal." He rolled them up and put them back into the canister. "But we have to prepare for the possibility that these pages may be from Rambaldi."

Isabelle pursed her lips together and nodded silently. Her mind off the liquor now, Sydney looked at Isabelle with empathy. Isabelle inhaled deeply then her eyes settled upon the injured Vaughn who had been staring at her the whole time. She pursed her lips together, appearing as if she were going to be stern again, but her mouth trembled a little.

"You need to go home," Isabelle said to Vaughn. "You're already as pale as bone. Not to mention Lauren's probably worried. I'm sure Eric called her and told her you were shot in the leg."

"It's just a flesh wound," Vaughn repeated for the millionth time.

"I'll help him to his car," Sydney offered. "You go ahead and go to bed. I know it's been a long day."

"It's been a long day for us all," Isabelle amended as Sydney helped Vaughn from the chair. Vaughn stared at her for a long moment before reaching out to touch her face. Without warning, he pulled her to him in an embrace that implied closeness rather than sensuality.

"I'm sorry I acted like an ass," Vaughn murmured against Isabelle's hairline. She still used the same shampoo after all of these years…

"And I'm sorry I overreacted when you got shot," Isabelle said. She stepped back and looked up at him. "I wish you wouldn't risk yourself to protect me. I can protect myself. Whatever happens, I can handle it." She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, a brush of the skin that seemed as sexless as their embrace but hinted at their familiarity. Jack glanced at Sydney for her reaction; she only appeared relieved. Jack frowned. "Good night, Michael."

He echoed the sentiment and allowed for Sydney to assist him to his car. Isabelle watched them go, and then, after sighing wearily, turned to Jack. With a nod, she said, "Good night, Mr. Bristow. Thank you for protecting Nicole and Sophie while we were gone."

Jack watched the woman, and for some odd reason he felt a strange sense of distrust. It could have been a symptom of his protectiveness of his only daughter, or it could have been a hunch. Whatever it was had him saying the one thing he knew would get a rise out of her.

"Nicole and I had a good long chat tonight," Jack told Isabelle as she turned to walk out. She paused in midstep at Jack's statement. "She told me many interesting things about you, including the circumstance of you and your brother finding her."

Isabelle whirled in a flash and looked at him, her green eyes startled. The fact that she hadn't had time to force the expression of pure shock she wore battled back some of his skepticism. "Nicole told you—?"

"She offered me information because she knew I doubted her integrity," Jack interrupted, watching as shock dissolved and Isabelle's eyes steeled. "And she understood that by doubting her integrity—and that of you and your daughter—I could make things for you difficult. She told me that she couldn't remember where she was born or who bore her, and I believe her." A small measure of relief came into Isabelle's eyes but she was just worked up enough to hold up that barrier of steel. "Now I am going to ask you, and I hope you answer me truthfully."

Isabelle broke in before Jack could actually ask the question since she knew where it was going. "I hope you do not think that I would silently accept any kind of wrongdoing inflicted upon that child, Mr. Bristow." Her _Mr. Bristow_ was so acrid he nearly bristled. Before his eyes, the anger that swam in her watery green orbs inverted. "I wish I'd had the persistence to get to the bottom of the situation, to press John until he told me more. But when I looked at her, every time I held her after a nightmare, I knew inside of me that if I knew who and why I would tear them apart with my bare hands. And quite frankly, the thought of doing that, the thought that I was capable of violence, scared the hell out of me." She looked up from the fists she had clenched while speaking, and the look in them was slightly feral. "However, I feel a little less of that now."

She, after loosening her hands, brushed a couple of tears away with her fingertips as her eyes calmed. "Good night, Agent Bristow," she said stiffly. "I hope you have your answer."

"That wasn't the answer I had intended to get, Ms. Flannery," Jack responded.

"Which is quite regrettable, because it's the only one you're going to get," Isabelle shot back in that same stiff tone.

With that, she turned and walked out, stopping only once to retrieve her daughter and leaving Jack to ponder on her words.

[----]

Outside, Sydney helped Vaughn get to his car. They—she, Vaughn, Weiss, and Isabelle—carpooled to the airstrip in his car earlier that day, but the mood was decidedly calmer than it had been in hours. Under the starry sky Sydney and Vaughn walked side-by-side, the closest they'd been in weeks, but the stroll was anything but romantic. Vaughn's gait was very awkward, and Sydney could feel the fatigue in his muscles as he struggled to walk.

"Did you and Isabelle fight like that all the time?" Sydney asked, wanting to break the silence.

"We tend to incite volatile feelings in one other," Vaughn admitted. "It's almost like we inherently know which buttons will set off the other." He sighed and shook his head. "If that canister we found turns out to be from Rambaldi…"

"Then we'll handle it," Sydney assured him.

"I don't want Isabelle to get hurt by something she had no intention of getting in the middle of in the first place," Vaughn said.

"She's not weak, Vaughn. She'll hate it if you try to shield her from whatever happens next. You know that as much as I do. Probably more."

He shook his head with amusement. "I thought she was going to wring my neck for getting shot. It's the sort of thing she would do."

"Most women would be honored to have a man risk his life for her," Sydney remarked. Something in her voice made Vaughn look at her, and she remembered the accident in Valladolid again. Judging by the look in his eyes, he was remembering, too. Knowing that, she added, "I know I would be."

There a long, humming moment as that comment sunk in. In the interim, Sydney decided she was tired of beating around the bush. She was tiptoeing around the subject—why? Because she was afraid of the truth? The truth was something she was tired of being scared of, and whatever reality she was turning a blind eye to, it couldn't be as horrible as all the other things she'd had to face over the past few months.

"Listen, Vaughn," Sydney began, "About the accident in Spain…" Something in Vaughn's eyes changed then, but she continued. She would not stop just because it was the easy thing to do. "I wanted to…thank you for saving my life. If you hadn't thought so quickly, we would both be dead."

Then Vaughn shocked her by saying, "Sydney, I already lost you once. I wasn't going to let it happen again. No matter what has happened between us, you still mean a great deal to me."

In the silence that ensued afterwards, something was mended between them, but Sydney told herself not to think of what was happening as a sign of the two of them getting back together romantically. Sydney exhaled but held her breath when Vaughn's hand moved over hers and patted it. Not able to think of anything else to say, Sydney stepped away as Vaughn lowered himself to the driver's seat.

"Good night, Vaughn," Sydney murmured.

Vaughn stared at her with a look in his eyes that she didn't understand. "Hopefully." He started the engine and closed the car door. As he drove away, Sydney wondered what that look in his eyes had meant. The red of his taillights blazed in the dark night, and Sydney realized it had been dread. It had been dread in his eyes.

[----]

"Do you know what it means?"

Isabelle shook her head and frowned at the parchment in her lap. Nicole and Sophie were ensconced in bed, and the two women had yet to wind down after that day's events, so they had agreed on tea to aid in the tension alleviation process. Isabelle knew that she would sleep badly after the conversation she'd had with Jack Bristow; the effects lingered like a bad case of heartburn. Sydney, on the other hand, felt that some weight had been lifted after her exchange with Vaughn.

"I've never seen anything like this before." Isabelle brought it up to her face with one hand as the other grasped a warm mug of tea. "Maybe Mama knew what it meant." She lowered the parchment then handed it to Sydney, who rolled it up carefully and put it away in the canister for safe keeping. "I wish she were here to tell me…"

Silence fell between them for the moment. Sydney had an urge to comfort Isabelle, but she also knew that she had to keep some distance from her as far as her job was concerned. There was really no conclusive way of telling what Isabelle actually knew. But Sydney followed her gut and reached out to place a hand on Isabelle's free hand. Isabelle's mouth quirked in a sign of gratitude but she said nothing. It was in that moment that Sydney decided to bare a piece of her she kept hidden from most of the people she knew.

"There are times that I miss my mother, too," Sydney admitted softly. Isabelle, catching her tone, looked at her sidelong from the other end of the couch. "I remember the things we used to do together, the stories she used to read to me at bedtime…" Sydney paused a moment to force a sip of tea down her throat. It suddenly felt tight. "Then I think about all of the bad things that she did, and I wonder…did she ever really want to be a mother? Did she want to take me to the park and read me _Alice in Wonderland_? Was I just another mission to be carried out, another objective to be accomplished?"

"Sydney," Isabelle said firmly. "If you continue to think like this, you're going to end up hurting yourself." She took a long considering look at the younger woman at the opposite end of the couch. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing a slim, stunning face complete with a sultry mouth that now sat sadly and eyes that sometimes were brown, then sometimes green. In the dim lighting, those eyes were a disconsolate brown glittering with unshed tears. "Sometimes I wonder the same thing about my own father. And then I tell myself that it's going to lead me to an early grave." What she said next had Sydney lifting her head abruptly. "For a woman who's back from the dead, I'd think you'd be quite reluctant to return to that state."

Astonished, Sydney gaped at her as she struggled to breathe. "How did you…?"

"I knew the moment we met at my house in Valladolid," Isabelle told her. She shifted as she spied the second question in Sydney's eyes. "Michael had come to see me after your supposed death. It wasn't too long after my own mother had died, so we leaned on one another for a bit." She paused, took in Sydney's wide eyes. "He told me all about you. How wonderful you were, how much he loved you. I cried with him because I could see that the loss of you had ripped something out of him." She looked at Sydney meaningfully. "And if it matters, I think that something's still gone."

Sydney shook her head and looked away. That comment inspired a hope that had to quickly be dashed before it grew into something unmanageable. "It doesn't matter anymore. It's in the past."

Understanding that she shouldn't press any further, Isabelle nodded. "You're right." She lifted her mug to her lips and took a gulp of tea. Her mind strayed on the subject of Vaughn and ended up settling upon his wife. "I wonder how she's gonna take it," she said idly into her tea.

Sydney looked to her again. "Excuse me?"

Isabelle turned and placed her mug aside before speaking. Suddenly jittery, she was afraid she wouldn't be able to hold on to it. "Michael is going to tell Lauren about Sophie. And I have a bad feeling that it's not going to turn out well."

_Ah,_ Sydney thought. Now the comment Vaughn made right before he left made a little more sense. _Hopefully._ He had been dreading telling Lauren about Isabelle and Sophie. "Isabelle," Sydney began, "if Lauren takes it badly, it won't be your fault. Whatever conclusions she comes to will be of her own making, not yours."

"I know, but I…" She looked to Sydney. "I know you were shocked when you figured it out. I mean, weren't you? I presume he told you nothing about me." Isabelle picked at the blanket covering her legs. "He and I were in loose touch when the two of you met, and he told me about you. Alice didn't really like me very much. She was the nice and tidy one, and she thought I was a bad influence—or a distracting one, rather."

Sydney didn't smother the light chuckle that escaped from her. "You? Distracting?" She hesitated thoughtfully, reevaluated. "Well, there was that scene in that one movie with the flamenco number in the flashy dress—"

Isabelle laughed heartily, a lovely sound. "I remember that. _Comin' Out_, I think. One of my favorites to do." She smiled absently into space as memories arose in her mind's eye. "Believe it or not, I wasn't sure I could do that scene. It was so involved and more physically demanding than I was used to. But in the end, I bore down and did it. I refused to have a double."

"So it was you? All of it?" Sydney inquired. "The singing, the dancing?"

"I couldn't talk for three days and was sore for a week." She smiled wistfully. "Those were the days…"

Sydney caught the wistfulness in her tone and pointed out, "You miss it."

"Sometimes," Isabelle admitted, nodding. "Though, the business was slightly different then. I was ridiculed as a teenager because no one believed who I was." She smiled then, absently as if she was remembering a sweet scene. "But Michael was different. He didn't treat me any differently because of what I did."

Sydney shifted to face her fully at her sigh of wistfulness. "When did you meet Vaughn? Was it in the middle of a crowded diner or at the movies…?"

"Oh no, it wasn't as exciting as that." Isabelle chuckled a bit and told the story, facing Sydney as if they were at a sleepover. The closeness and camaraderie was comforting and novel. "It was after my first day of school in Los Angeles," she began.

[----]

_Several years ago. c. 1984. _

_It had been unnaturally cool during winter that year; the blazers that the young men wore to school as a part of their uniforms had be accompanied by overcoats that felt, at first, a little awkward. For everyone, the need to bundle up more than usual in Southern California_ _was odd. But humans adapt to changes in their surroundings, so coats were shipped in to handle the dropping temperatures and people donned them, puzzled over them briefly, then went on with their lives. _

_Quite frankly, Michael Vaughn was not a stranger to the cold, so he was clad in the thick blazer that was a part of his school uniform without an overcoat. He had spent time in Northern California_ _and in France_ _with his mother, and he had experienced real winter—not the kind simulated by fake snowflakes. He looked up at the slate-gray sky and wondered if they would get some snow out of this cold snap. He recalled moments of playing in the snow up north with friends, the excitement from snowball fights as the bite of the cold air stung their cheeks—_

_The sound of a girl's irate shout had his ears perking up, all thoughts of snow forgotten. _

_He rounded the corner to find three guys his age standing around a young woman with dark hair. The way the girl's fists were clenched and the guys leered at her indicated that this was a slightly precarious situation. A part of him realized that he could get seriously injured trying to take on three guys at the same time. But Chivalry was louder than Caution, and he poised himself to jump in. He hoped he wouldn't regret it later._

"_I told you not to touch me you asshole," the girl was saying to one of the guys. The guy she was addressing, who, in typical fashion, was outfitted in a letter jacket, and one of his friends chuckled at her statement as if it were some grand joke. They reached out to touch her again and she swung out faster than they—or Michael—could blink. The blow connected with someone's jaw, and outrage sounded among the trio. _

"_That bitch!" said Jock Boy while nursing his hurt jaw._

"_Looks like she's got some backbone," jeered Jerk Number Two. "Maybe she got it in _acting _class." The word _acting _came out like a taunt. _

"_I don't care where she got it," snapped Jock Boy. "She's gonna regret hitting me—"_

"_Maybe you should pick on someone your own size." And there Michael Vaughn made his big entrance as the mysterious savior in this lopsided scene. His remark had the guys turning away from the girl with varying degrees of shock. The girl looked the most surprised._

_Jerk Number Two nudged Jock Boy. "Looks like one of the eunuchs from the private school's trying to prove his manhood."_

_The girl pushed her way through them to stand beside Michael as the guys sniggered among each other at the comment. Her forehead was in the general region of the tip of his nose, but the way she stood beside him with her feet spread and fists clenched indicated she wasn't going to let height be a disadvantage._

"_Looks to me like you're trying to prove yours by picking on a girl," Michael remarked. _

"_Oh, please," said Jock Boy. "Spare me. The girl is barely worth fighting over."_

"_Oh you know it's true," agreed the girl. "But in my opinion you've got teeny tiny dicks so you can't pick on anyone but people you think are defenseless. I've seen sewer rats and street bums in Manhattan_ _with bigger _cojones _than you."_

_Jock Boy's expression changed, and Michael knew that her sharp-headed barb had hit its fleshy mark. Incensed, Jock Boy lunged himself at her—only to receive a left jab to his uninjured jaw from the so-called eunuch. The force of it made him fall back into his friends, and he struggled against them as he threatened Michael and the girl._

"_I'm gonna bash your face in!" he shouted angrily. In response to that, Michael pushed the girl behind him and acted as her shield. Jock Boy's friends saw the intent in Michael's eyes and understood that he was not as puny as he appeared. They dragged their angry friend away and peace descended upon the unknown girl and her rescuer. _

_The girl exhaled, looking a bit shaken. When Michael turned and reached out to touch her, she shifted away quickly, and he found himself staring into a pair of suspicious green eyes. He opened his mouth to speak as his own eyes changed, but something about the girl's expression stopped him. He took his hand back slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. He sensed that the girl was wary of him even though he'd just saved her from bullying._

"_I just want to make sure you're okay," Michael assured her gently. _

"_I'm fine," the girl said, sounding a touch prickly. She pursed her lips together at that moment as if she had listened to herself. She sighed and softened her tone. "Listen, I appreciate you coming to my rescue. That was brave of you." She gazed off to the east, opposite of where a cloud-shrouded sun dominated the sky. "The people are different here than they are in New York."_

"_I'm pretty sure they are with it being a different coast and all." The girl looked back at him, a bit of abashed amusement in her eyes. "You live around here?"_

_She jerked a thumb to her right. "A couple of blocks that way. My family and I live on Cabrera." She kicked at a pebble with her toe, realizing that she was slightly intrigued with the shaggy-haired, emerald-eyed knight. "What about you?" She nodded at his blazer. "You don't go to public school, do you?"_

"_I go to the boys' school a few blocks from here, just like my dad did when he was my age." When he frowned as his words died in the air, the girl tilted her head quizzically. What she did not realize was that she had been a witness to an abnormal occurrence, an unexpected moment of candidness that made him feel bare, exposed. However, it didn't take her long to discern that something profound had happened, and concern rapidly overtook bemusement. _

_Hating the silence that had fallen, the girl hurriedly introduced herself. "I'm sorry; I seemed to have forgotten my manners." She stepped forward and thrust out a hand. "My name is Isabelle."_

"_Michael," he responded in kind, shaking her hand. It was on the small side, but it seemed sturdy and smooth. "My name is Michael."_

_When she smiled, it lit up her face in a way that made her pale heart-shaped visage dazzling. "Michael," she repeated. "Nice to know my knight in shining armor has a name." She picked at a fingernail idly, not quite knowing what to say. She appeared hesitant to end the encounter, and Michael felt likewise. He didn't know how to explain the urge to remain in her presence; perhaps being in the company of males most of the day made him desperate for female attention. _

_Boldly, he asked, "Would you like for me to walk you home?" She looked up abruptly, green eyes filled with shock. Her look filled him with a slight trepidation, and he added haltingly, "I mean, I want to make sure…"_

_She chuckled good-naturedly, eyes dancing at the prospect, and his hopes soared. "Of course you can walk me home."_

_Michael fell into step beside Isabelle as they headed toward her house, and they talked about their favorite music. Isabelle admitted to like the music her mother played from the previous decade which ranged from flamenco from her native country to rock and roll from the Beatles; Isabelle and the girlfriends that she'd left in New York listened to pretty much anything, and she nodded with great approval at Michael's love for Jimi Hendrix. They discussed their favorites from contemporary music and found that their tastes were similar. _

_Suddenly, without warning, Isabelle started to sing. Her voice was smooth and sweet, the kind that would have spun silk out of lullabies. Michael was so stunned by its purity that he nearly stopped in place. _

She says her love for me could never die,  
But that'd change if she ever found out about you and I.  
Oh, but her love is cold,  
Wouldn't hurt her if she didn't know,  
'Cause when it gets too much,  
I need to feel your touch.

_Michael recognized the song because he'd heard it on the radio the previous day. It was a good song, one he liked. When she turned to grin at him, he sang along with her, their voices blending into one._

I'm gonna run to you,  
I'm gonna run to you,  
'Cause when the feeling's right I'm gonna run all night,  
I'm gonna run to you.

_They finished the chorus and listened as their voices echoed away from them through the dry, cold air. He found himself looking at her with wonder as she strode alongside him. After a couple of beats she felt his gaze and met it unflinchingly._

"_What's wrong?" she inquired, frowning. _

_Michael blinked. Once he realized that he had been staring at her without explanation, he shook himself out of his reverie and hastily apologized. "I'm sorry. Look—I have to be honest, I've never heard anyone who sounds like you. Your voice…"_

_Isabelle's cheeks flamed and the light in her eyes dimmed. "I didn't mean to just start singing like that." She stuffed her hands in her pockets and concentrated on the ground in front of her. "I'm sorry."_

_Michael's brow furrowed. He placed a hand on Isabelle's shoulder involuntarily before he could begin to feel embarrassed by making such a bold move. His fingertips rested upon Isabelle's comfortably worn leather jacket and he felt her warmth—and her tense shoulder muscles. She was anxious all of a sudden, and he wanted to know why._

_They paused on the sidewalk underneath a street light that would illuminate the darkened path in a few short hours. Isabelle tilted her face up to his. Her lips were pursed and her eyes were slightly troubled. _

"_I don't understand," Michael remarked. "You shouldn't be sorry because you have talent."_

_Finding no way to refute that, Isabelle shrugged. "I still shouldn't have flaunted it like that—"_

_Michael laughed then, cutting her off. "Isabelle, if I had a voice like yours, everyone would know." Isabelle looked away uncomfortably and Michael's eyebrows lifted. "What—does everybody know? That couldn't possibly be true…" Isabelle slipped away from him then, pulling her collar up to buffet herself from the wind. When he caught up with her (it didn't take long; he was a few inches taller than she was and his strides were quite long), he could only see the top part of her face; the bottom of her nose and her mouth were concealed by the upturned collar. _

"_It's not like you're Madonna or something," Michael commented. Those moss-green orbs flickered across him in silence. Michael stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, too, and thought about what this meant. He thought he understood, but the possibility was so outlandish that he felt dumb even to consider the thought. But Isabelle supplied no explanation for her silence, so he figured the worse that could happen was he could be embarrassed in front of a girl. Gee. Not something that was new. Distressing, but not new. _

"_Have I seen anything you've been in?"_

That _did it. Isabelle stopped in her tracks and gazed at him. From the set of her mouth (he could now see it through the front opening of the jacket) he could tell that the question hadn't made her happy. _

"_What's it to you?" Isabelle demanded, her New York_ _brogue deepening. She crossed her arms over her chest. "And if I had been 'in' something, I'd bet you'd go to school tomorrow, acting all macho, and tell all of your little buddies about how you saved Isabelle Flannery from almost getting her ass kicked." With that, she turned on her heel and left him gaping at her in her wake as her long mahogany ponytail bounced on her back. _

_In his mind, he recalled the other evening when he had been doing the dishes after dinner. His mother had been watching television while she helped him tidy up when a trailer for a new movie had come on. It had been a drama about a young girl who sought refuge from the effects of her mother's debilitating sickness in a magical figure everyone around her thought was part of her imagination. It was called _The Moonlight Junction, _and it showcased a talented group of actors, including the pale-faced ingénue Isabelle Flannery, who had appeared in one of his mother's favorite musicals. _

_He recalled the anguished face of the girl in the trailer, compared it to the face of the one who was stalking away from him at that exact moment. When comprehension dawned, he got a shock._

"You're _Isabelle Flannery?"_

_The awe and utter disbelief in his voice had her halting again. She had come across a lot of people her age who knew who she was—her former harassers included—and rarely had anyone sounded as completely enthralled as Michael Vaughn had. _

_Mostly people jeered at her; in her normal existence, she didn't cavort among the Manhattan_ _night life or curse like a sailor. She didn't seem like the ballsy and rebellious Tina from _Vice and Virtue_, or the pampered but repressed Abigail from _Wicked_. Mostly people thought that _she _thought she was something special, a big shot because she had been on a Broadway stage, on the silver screen. Honestly, she liked slipping from character to character while still going home to her identity at the end of the day. It wasn't about the money or the fame, but no one understood that. _

_Isabelle slowly circled to face Michael. With her hands together to keep them warm, she responded, "Yes, I am Isabelle Flannery. Who'd you think I was?"_

"_I dunno." He paused to scrutinize her, the petite young woman in jeans and no makeup. Tina had sworn by her black eyeliner, and Abigail's face had not the refinement that Isabelle's currently had. "But I never expected, not in a million years…"_

"_So what, you want me to sign that clean white shirt of yours or something so that you've got proof you met me?"_

_Michael shook his head. "I would never ask you to do something like that. That would be kind of gauche, wouldn't it?" When Isabelle relaxed and agreed, he added, "But my mother wouldn't mind you signing my sock. It costs less to replace."_

_Isabelle made a face at him._

_Michael held up his hands in a gesture of goodwill. "I'm kidding. Truthfully, my mother probably would mind you signing my sock. But I'm sure she'd love to meet you…" Isabelle's eyebrows arched. "…if that's okay. She plays the cassette of _Verve: the Musical _quite religiously around the house and I have to admit I know almost all of the words." Isabelle merely blinked, not saying a word, and Michael felt the heavy burden of awkwardness wash upon him again. "But I'm not putting any pressure on you, not at all. You really don't have to meet my mother if you don't want to…"_

_Michael trailed off as a strange sound met his ears. He stared at Isabelle as her shoulders shook and her breath came out in short puffs—she was _laughing!

"_Um, I didn't realize I was a comedian," Michael muttered. "Do you mind telling me what's so funny?"_

_Isabelle came up and laughingly punched his shoulder. He yelped when the blow connected; he was a lanky, sturdy guy, but Isabelle was stronger than she looked, apparently. _

"_You're cute when you're nervous," Isabelle told him. "Babbling about me meeting your mama." She laughed again. "And here I am, used to guys throwing themselves at me in all kinds of indecent ways because of what I do, having met you, who wants to get his sock autographed and take me home to Mama. Isn't that something?" _

"_I'll bet," Michael said, for lack of anything better to say, as Isabelle fell back into step with him. They walked for a bit, side by side, without saying anything. _

_To break another silence, albeit a more comfortable one, Isabelle inquired, "So what about your family? What are they like?"_

_It was Michael's turn to be uncomfortable. He averted Isabelle's inquisitive gaze and stared at the rooftops of the houses they passed by so he didn't see the confusion pass over her face. "I, uh… It's just me and my mother. My father…" Isabelle shook her head and swore under her breath at the evident sorrow in his voice. "My father died when I was a little boy."_

"_Oh Michael," Isabelle began, green eyes wide, "I am so sorry. I didn't mean to—"_

_He shook his head and shrugged it off, not looking at her. "It's okay. You didn't know. You couldn't have known." He hazarded a glance at Isabelle. He'd expected that she would feel pity for him, want him to cry on her shoulder. Or she would want to help him "work" through his feelings in a _Sally Jessy _moment. Instead, what he sensed from her was…understanding. It was a welcome change from the usual female reaction that usually left him feeling uncomfortable. _

"_You seem…okay," Isabelle began hesitantly. Michael looked at her puzzledly. "I mean, you're not getting into trouble and blaming it on your dead father, so I guess your mother is doing a good job. You don't know how many jerks I see trying to wreak havoc on everyone else because they think they've been screwed out of a normal childhood. Pussies."_

_Michael choked out laughter at the word. "Well no, not me," he managed. Isabelle shared a look with him and couldn't help but laugh, too._

"_It's true," Isabelle insisted when her laughter had subsided. "So you stay the way you are, okay?"_

_Michael met her intense gaze with a nod as they paused in front of a two-story house. "Okay, I promise."_

"_Good." She gestured toward the house they'd stopped in front of. He spied the shiny silver car in the driveway. Her mother drove a Mercedes. He wondered what she was like. He wondered what her whole family was like and how it felt to live with them. But he didn't have the time to ask her as she was getting out her house key. "So I guess I'll see you…around."_

"_Oh sure. Around."_

"_Thanks for walking me home. Those guys were jerks. I mean, I would have gotten rid of them, but… Well, thanks all the same." _

"_Oh, no problem." There was a pause. Isabelle couldn't quite walk to her house, and Michael could not force himself to leave. Something tangible existed in the air between them, a link neither wanted to break. Finally Michael inquired, "So would you like to have a burger sometime? Maybe I can take you home to meet Mama afterwards."_

_Isabelle laughed at the last part, which was obviously said in jest. "I'm gonna get a toothache with you around." After a moment of consideration, she nodded. "Yeah. We'll have that burger sometime." She turned as the door opened and a dark-haired young man about Michael's age and height stepped out onto the porch. From his vantage point, Michael could see a slight resemblance though the guy's skin was duskier than his sister's. "Hey—stop acting like you're my warden, wouldja Johnny?"_

"_Stop calling me Johnny!" was the irate shout. "The name is _Jonathan_. And stop playing _Love Connection_. Mama wants you in the house _ahora_."_

_Isabelle rolled her eyes, her exasperation obvious. "Whatever," she muttered. She turned to Michael with an exasperated smile. "I gotta jet or he's gonna come over here—and trust me, we don't want that." She offered him a spunky wave as she backed away. "See you later. Hey—maybe you can walk me home tomorrow."_

_Michael had to crush the urge to be overly happy about the new development; he managed a nonchalant shrug of shoulder that seemed cool. "Oh sure. Awesome. See you later."_

_She shot him one last smile before running up the walkway to the porch. Michael watched, with some amusement, as she ran up the steps and punched her older brother in the shoulder. She dashed away as he was holding his injured shoulder, and he rushed after her, declaring war. The door slammed behind them, closing Michael off from the sight of their familial dynamics._

_As he walked home thinking about Isabelle, he couldn't help the feeling his life was not going to be the same now that she had walked into it._


	11. Revelation

**Chapter Ten  
**_Revelation_

_* "**Smooth Operator" **is originally performed by Sade. Written by Sade Adu and Ray Saint John._

When Vaughn walked over the threshold of the house he shared with his wife, he felt it. It overshadowed the pain from his wound and the burden of the last several hours. It was a keen awareness that the moment he had been dreading for months was near: the moment he was going to tell Lauren the truth about Isabelle and Sophie.

He wasn't ashamed of Isabelle, not by any means. She was beautiful, caring, and smart, and dealing with her in Valladolid and in New York had proved that she had guts to add to the list. Beneath that pale skin and olive-green eyes was a woman with a spine of steel—but her heart was softer than one might think. And her heart was bruised to some degree by his not acknowledging her presence to the woman with whom he had vowed to spend the rest of his life. It wasn't until that moment that he had stood over the threshold of his house that he understood why. In do so, he had shunned his daughter.

The golden light spilling onto the wooden floor from the living room alerted Vaughn to the possibility that his wife was still awake. He limped toward the signs of life and found himself holding his breath as if he were going to be diving into dark depths of water. Now or never.

As soon as Lauren spotted him, she leapt up from the couch and rushed to his side as if he was coming home from war instead of a simple mission to New York City. The breath he had been holding was summarily knocked out of him as the robe-clad, loose-haired woman embraced him.

"Oh God—Michael," she breathed. "Weiss called and told me everything." She squeezed him tightly. "I'm so glad you're home."

_Let's see how long that lasts,_ he thought tiredly. After a few beats, he pulled away from his wife, much to her amazement. It was stamped across her face, shimmering in her eyes. He focused on those eyes to keep him steady.

"Could we sit down?" he asked. "There…I have something to tell you."

Lauren gripped his arm urgently. "Tell me? Is everything all right?"

"Sit down," he urged wearily.

Lauren stared at him worriedly as if she were concerned that he were going to fall apart any second. Truthfully, she wasn't that far off; amid the dearth of pain medication, Vaughn relied on sheer will to keep him focused and upright. He knew he could not rest until this secret was revealed.

"Michael, whatever it is you have to tell me, it can wait," Lauren told him. "You're exhausted and you've been hurt. You need to rest."

"This can't wait," Vaughn insisted. "This absolutely cannot wait." Lauren opened her mouth to protest, but Vaughn clamped his hands on her shoulders so that she was forced to look into his face. "Lauren, there is something you have to know about Isabelle. And her daughter." He paused and considered the best way to tell her. After a second, he figured that a concise admission would be best. "Sophia Flannery is my daughter."

For a couple of beats, nothing happened. Then Lauren's face went slack and her lips parted as she searched his eyes for any sign of duplicity, any sign that this was just a joke and it could fade away with a fingersnap. But all she saw in his eyes was weariness—and apprehension. That set her off and made her react.

"What?" she managed. "You mean…that…that woman you and Sydney brought from Spain bore you a child?" Before he could answer, she shifted away from him and shook his hands off of her shoulders. "How long have you known?"

"I've known about Sophie since she was a baby," Vaughn explained. "Isabelle only revealed to me Sophie's paternity after her mother died. After…we thought Sydney died."

"And you didn't tell me." The bitterness slashed at him and he braced himself against its onslaught. He dimly realized that it probably hadn't been a good idea to mention Sydney's name either. "You coupled with that…woman, she had your child and you didn't care to tell me? If she hadn't had to come with you and Sydney back to Los Angeles, how long would it have taken you to tell me, Michael? When the girl was graduating high school?"

"I was going to tell you, Vaughn insisted tightly. "To be honest, I had resigned myself to the fact that I would never know that little girl, if she had turned out more like me or more like her mother. Isabelle wanted me to have nothing to do with Sophie, and she had her reasons. So I tried to pretend she didn't exist. I didn't tell you because I was trying to put Isabelle and Sophie in the past." As Lauren pushed up from the couch and began to stalk away from him, Vaughn spoke softer. "I'm sorry, Lauren. What I did was stupid and you'll have to forgive me for that. But please give Sophie and Isabelle a chance."

With her back to him, Lauren suddenly asked, "How much do you love her, Michael?" She turned, and Vaughn could see the emotion swirling in her eyes. "Do you love her more than me?"

Vaughn sighed and lowered his head a moment before meeting her eyes unflinchingly. She didn't specify which _she_ she meant, but Vaughn took a wild guess and said the first thing that came to mind. "I love Isabelle very deeply, Lauren. She has been a dear friend—and only a friend—to me for a long time, no matter what hell she puts me through. But Sophie is my daughter. Now that I have the chance I would give her the moon and the stars if I could. That is something you just have to understand."

Silence fell around them like a heavy pall after that admission. Vaughn stared at his wife's back, wondering where he stood with her. Wondering where they would go from there. As instants slipped away without her approval, he had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that the path on which they would be going would be riddled with thorns.

"I'm going to bed," Lauren told him in a low, angry tone. "Please don't come up after me."

She drifted from the room, leaving him numb and exhausted. Vaughn watched the doorway as the sound of her muted footsteps faded away during her ascent of the stairs. It had happened; he had jumped the first hurdle in a line of what he realized would be many others. The fatigue bowled him over again, and he knew sleep was inevitable. He laid back on the throw pillow gently and went off into a dreamless slumber.

[----]

In the corner of a swanky nightclub swathed in alcohol, smoke, and sweaty, languid bodies, Samara recrossed her legs with a wince. The scrape on her knee had scabbed over but was still sore. She glanced at her watch as a roving waiter replaced her empty water glass and realized that her acquaintance was late.

It added to the irritation of the day. Not only was she unsuccessful in getting what she ordered to get but she also was not able to thwart Isabelle and her allies. That was the biggest disappointment of all. She had wanted to get the best of that…of that… She exhaled slowly in an attempt to purge the anger from inside of her. When an observant pair of eyes spied her from across the room, she was at the closest to fuming as she could get. Samara was not a woman of violent emotion, but her face showed the tell-tale signs of irritation when Sark strode up.

The song that poured from the speakers as he walked through the smoke and dim light was "Smooth Operator." That Samara would always remember whenever she looked back upon this moment as the first of her new life—her new life being in charge of her destiny.

The lyrics that Sade crooned into the murky squalor fit Julian Sark well. Despite his injuries at the hands of their adversaries, he moved with assurance and skill. He still had a bandage at his neck and probably another underneath his sharply pressed dress shirt, but you couldn't tell when you looked into his eyes. He appeared unruffled, suave as fine liquor.

_He's laughing with another girl  
And playing with another heart  
Placing high stakes, making hearts ache  
He's loved in seven languages_

Samara trained her cool blue eyes on him. "It's about time you got here," she complained, though there was no heat in the tone. It would have been uncharacteristic of her.

Sark smoothly sat down, not irritated in the slightest. He removed a manila envelope from the inside of his jacket and slid it across the table to her. When she looked at it then at him warily, he nodded to indicate that she should open it.

"It didn't take long to figure out," Sark explained as she looked at the papers in disbelief. "I found it odd that Samara Catherine Lewis seemed to be created out of thin air." When her eyes blazed with anger, he continued. "You didn't want anyone to know who you were and went to great lengths to mask your true identity." He finished simply, as the tension mounted, "Why?"

Samara lowered the stack with a muffled bang, teeth bared. "Don't you _dare_ force me to explain to you." She glanced around as if she were going to find someone eavesdropping on their exchange. Of course, there was no one; everyone around them was focused on their hedonistic activities. "I covered my true identity for good reason. I would have been killed if they knew I was Darcy Aileen Flannery."

"Enlighten me. Why is Darcy Flannery such a doomed human being?"

Samara flung the papers at him. "Don't act like you don't know why. Every Covenant cell leader would have me gutted for being a part of the family they think is blaspheming Rambaldi's name."

Sark, bemused of course, took a few moments to retrieve the papers from the floor so that he could gather his thoughts. Samara's (he thought of her that way; it was disorienting to think of her as Darcy Flannery, even if she was merely Isabelle's half-sister) show of anger was oddly intriguing, but even more was her claim of peril. If she knew of his plans to kill off the cell leaders she feared, she would be comforted, but he decided to let her in on it once she gave him her story. Blaspheming Rambaldi? What did that mean exactly?

He neatly slid the papers back into the envelope and asked that very question.

The change in Samara was stark. Her face went slack and those cool blue-gray eyes went blank. All the indignation bled out of her at the sight of Sark's ignorance. "You mean…you don't know?"

"Why do you think I asked you to enlighten me, Samara?" Calling her by that name seemed to endear him to her, just a bit. "Whatever stigma your family name carries is interesting but unbeknownst to me. If you tell me, I might find means to assist you."

Samara snorted sardonically. "I find that hard to believe."

"I will dissuade you," Sark remarked, "after you explain what you mean. I assume some great secret ties your family to Milo Rambaldi. I would like to know what that secret is."

"Fine." Calm again, Samara took a sip of water. She now realized that she had the upper hand (at least for now). "I assume that you know nothing the Fellowship of the Goddess." Sark shook his head to indicate that she was right; he didn't. "The Fellowship of the Goddess was formed in the late seventies by Alejandro Garza, my stepfather, and a sociologist from France. Garza and the woman met after Garza acquired the Globe. They were devoted to uncovering the mystery of the lost woman of Rambaldi and revealing her importance to other enthusiasts. My father, Jason Flannery, became involved nearly a decade later and funded a search to find proof that the lost woman existed. During the search, part of a document had been found. It, to this day, has not been translated." Samara paused for a moment. "It is believed that the pages are part of a personal record of some sort. If they are, they will be very pivotal to the validation of this woman's existence. Unfortunately, the resurfacing of this information had incited the anger of some of our superiors, and Garza was killed in Russia over three months ago for trying to use his Covenant ties to gain assistance in translating the pages."

Sark's eyebrows knitted together. "I'm not sure I follow you, Samara. Everyone knows about the Chosen One from page 47. It's common knowledge. I don't understand why your family is in any kind of danger."

Samara shook her head at him, and Sark felt that telltale sensation of something gargantuan looming over his head. It was that sort of feeling that occurred before one found out something life-altering.

"Have you ever read _The Da Vinci Code_, Sark?" Samara inquired. When he indicated that he had, she pressed, "Do you remember what it insinuates?"

Sark blinked. "It insinuates quite a bit about Jesus Christ, among them the fact that Mary Magdalene was his wife and bore him children." Following that chain of thought, Sark added in a matter-of-fact tone, "The Chosen One had not been Rambaldi's wife. If she had been, she would not have the same importance."

Samara nodded slowly. "You're right about that," she merely said, letting her words and the implication of them float between them.

It was Sark's turn to be deeply amazed once the implication dawned. "So you mean…"

"There was another woman in the Rambaldi mythology," Samara told him. "On the Globe, there are the initials M.A.R. Of course, you know that Rambaldi's own initials are M.G.R. So they are not his. They are those of his wife. And what's even worse," Samara continued, "the woman my father and Garza worked with believed that my mother was a descendant of Rambaldi and his wife. Which would make me a descendant as well."

"Oh yes," Sark said thoughtfully after a moment to adjust, "now I can see why you concealed your identity."

Samara took a sip of water. "I knew you would."

[----]

Sometime later, Sark called Lauren while on the way to a private airstrip. He knew that it was bedtime wherever she was, and she was probably with her husband.

That made calling her all the better.

After Lauren picked up and issued a sleepy greeting, Sark commented, "How's that darling husband of yours, Ms. Reed? Is Agent Vaughn in bliss right next to you?"

"No he's not," Lauren responded stiffly. "He is sleeping on the couch."

Sark clucked his tongue. "That's a pity. Marital spat?"

"Hardly. The bastard coupled with that Flannery woman and just now decided to let me in on the big secret." Before Sark could say something to that, Lauren asked, "I assumed that there is a reason why you called me."

"Yes. We need to meet and discuss some things. I'd rather not go into them over the phone. Can we meet soon?"

"I think that can be arranged. It seems I've now got some time on my hands."

Sark smirked at the wry tone of her voice. "I assume you're taking some time away from your husband to make him repent for his mistake of sleeping with Isabelle Flannery years ago."

"Something like that."


	12. Family

**Chapter Eleven  
**_Family_

_***"Disco"** originally performed by Grenique. Written by Geoff Harper, Rasheem "Kilo" Pugh, Tejumold Newton, and Vada Nobles.  
***"Real Love"** originally performed by Skyy. Written by Solomon Roberts._

When Tuesday came around again, Sydney found that she didn't feel out-of-sorts or awkward. She realized that some of that was due to the presence of Isabelle and her small household to liven her life.

It wasn't like her life was boring, she assured herself. With work sending her all over the planet, she didn't have much time for what she already had in her life—which, according to some, wasn't all that much. But then again, wouldn't a full, active social life amid hunting down terrorists be a bit of overkill?

Nicole was in Sydney's stylish kitchen making fried chicken and had shooed Sydney and Isabelle away when they tried to lend a helping hand, allowing them only to retrieve a couple of wine glasses and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Biscuits were baking in the oven, homemade mashed potatoes and fresh snap beans were heating on the stove top, and there was even a rumor of baked strawberry pie floating around. Needless to say, Sydney was anticipating dinner like a small child anticipated a birthday party. It was something she hadn't felt in a while, so she embraced it—and all of the foolishness that came along with it.

Nicole sang along with Grenique's "Disco" as she checked on the drumsticks in the deep-fryer. Sydney and Isabelle sipped wine at the island as Sophie sat between them, drawing a picture. The scene was homey, comforting. Even Nicole cooing, _Pick out my afro, slip on my high heeled shoes, put on my fancy coat—I'm heading to the disco! _accompanied the scene nicely.

"I can't begin to thank you for letting us stay here, Sydney," Isabelle said as she lowered her wine glass. "I know it's an inconvenience—"

Sydney waved a hand in easy dismissal. "No—wait. Of course not," she assured Isabelle. "Truthfully, I was used to having a roommate before and having you all around reminds me of how much I missed it." She briefly thought of Francie and Will as Sophie tugged on her sleeve. "Whatcha got for me, sweetie?" Sophie slid the picture she'd been drawing of the fruit bowl in Sydney's direction. The drawing needed a bit of refinement, but it was still amazing for a seven-year-old, and that fact showed on Sydney's face when she looked at it.

"Do you like it?" Sophie asked, the tone of her voice indicating she was anxious for Sydney's approval.

"I love it," Sydney told her, then, on impulse, placed a light kiss on her temple. Isabelle, meanwhile, smiled faintly and appeared content that her daughter liked Sydney. "Thank you. I'll put it on the fridge after dinner." She turned to Nicole, who was stirring the snap beans. She reached out and pulled the lid up on the pot of mashed potatoes. From Sydney's vantage point, they looked as fluffy as clouds. Delicious. "So when's it going to be ready anyway?"

Nicole slapped her hand away. "Girl!" she admonished. "You wanna lose a hand or something? It'll be done when it's done. All right?"

"All right," Sydney repeated. She caught Isabelle's eye and her dimples popped out as she grinned at the older woman. "Is she always like this?"

"Actually, she's a little better behaved tonight," Isabelle admitted, and received a glare from Nicole. "During Thanksgiving, she all but soaked me with water to keep me out of my own kitchen."

"Y'all can go set the table or something," Nicole suggested, waving her spatula at them. "And wash your hands. Y'all ain't gonna come to my table with dirty fingers."

"Yes, Mother," Isabelle said wryly as she slid off out of the chair. But Nicole couldn't help a smirk as they retrieved the plates from Sydney's cabinet. The doorbell rang as Sydney and Sophie were giggling over silverware. Nicole's eyebrows arched as she and Isabelle shared a look. Isabelle offered to get it before Sydney could move.

"I wonder who that could be," Nicole murmured absently with a frown.

Meanwhile, Isabelle had opened up the door to find Vaughn on Sydney's porch. He was sans tie and blazer, but he still wore the navy blue slacks and the pale blue shirt he had donned for work that morning, which was unbuttoned at the neck to reveal some of his tanned skin. He had his hands in his pockets, and he kicked at a pebble as the door came open. When he spied Isabelle, his expression changed from uneasiness to a bit of irritation.

"Isabelle," Vaughn scolded. "What are you doing answering the door? Where is Sydney?"

"She's setting the table with Sophie," Isabelle told him archly. She crossed her arms over her chest. "If you're about to yell at me, save it."

Vaughn surprised her by saying, "I didn't come here to fight, Isabelle. I…I wanted to come and spend some time with my daughter, if you didn't mind."

Isabelle nodded, reversing her thrusters. Indignation was replaced by concern. "Does Lauren know now?"

Vaughn looked down at his feet a moment, then shifted his gaze up to Isabelle. "I finally sat her down and told her about Sophie. She…is out of town right now."

Isabelle nodded, understanding what he was trying to say without actually verbalizing it. She saw his eyes telling her all she needed to know, and the information there wrenched her heart. Tears threatened to fill her eyes. She tried to blink them away and avert Vaughn's gaze but he was too shrewd. He took her chin gently and forced her to look at him.

Her mouth trembled, but she firmed it into a line. After a moment she said, "I should have told you about Sophie before, Michael. I put you in an impossible position with your wife and hurt you in turn. I am so sorry."

"I'm a big boy, Isabelle," he reminded her. "I could have told her sooner if I wanted but I didn't. And that's on me." He hugged her. "But knowing sooner would have helped."

Isabelle chuckled as Nicole's irate shout floated out to them. Apparently, Sophie had dared Sydney to stick her finger in the baked strawberry pie and, from the sounds of it, Nicole had swatted her away with her spatula before she could complete the challenge.

"We'd better get in there before Sydney gets grounded in her own house," Isabelle suggested with a half-laugh. She turned to walk inside, but paused as something occurred to her. "Michael?"

He stopped beside her, looked at her sidelong. "Yeah?"

"I told Sophie who you were. Are," she corrected. She looked up at him. "I explained, in somewhat simple terms she could understand, that you couldn't be with us because I didn't allow you to." She watched as Sydney and Sophie comically finished setting the table. "When she asked me why I'd done that, I told her that I thought I was protecting you. And I did. But after she went to sleep, and I got to thinking about it, I realized that I did you a great disservice by taking away your choice to be protected or take the risk." She slipped her hand in his. "I want to fix that. Be her father."

"Isabelle," Vaughn started, "I am her father."

"Good," Isabelle remarked with a nod. She patted his broad shoulder and gave him her award-winning smile. "So then you can give her the birds and the bees talk over dinner."

She bit off a laugh at Vaughn's horrified expression and secured the front door.

At the sound of the door closing, Sophie and Sydney both looked up. Sophie, with all of her childish understanding, dropped the plate she had been holding onto the table and ran headlong into Vaughn.

"Oh—wow!" Vaughn exclaimed as the breath was knocked out of him. "Hi there."

Sophie raised her head and grinned at him. Her eyes danced with glee. "Hello. Can you stay for dinner?" Not waiting for him to answer, she turned to Isabelle. "Mami, can he stay for dinner?"

When Isabelle looked up at Sydney, a question in her eyes, Sydney said, "It's okay. Vaughn can have dinner with us if he wants."

After a humming moment, Vaughn stopped fighting the grin that had threatened to break out onto his face. "I definitely want. Hey," he said when he spotted the pie cooling nearby. "Is this—?" Nicole swatted his hand with the spatula before his fingertips could touch the crumbly lattice topping. The plastic hit his skin with a sharp snap. "Ow!" Vaughn protested, jerking his hand away. "Hey! What was that for?"

Nicole looked mama-stern as she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "Did I _tell_ you to touch the pie? No," she cut him off when he tried to speak. "Now go wash your hands. Dinner will be ready in two minutes." As Vaughn rubbed his hand and walked toward Sydney's bathroom to wash his hands, Nicole added loudly, "And you're on kitchen duty afterwards, buddy. So don't try to skulk out after dessert."

Sydney covered her mouth to contain her chuckle, and Isabelle remarked, "Yes, I'm afraid she could be much, much worse than this."

[----]

Several miles away, Marisol Sebastian took off her reading glasses and rubbed at her tired eyes.

She had seen better days, and that she would readily admit, but the past few days had been staggering in the wake of her best friend's phone call. You might have something someone dangerous wants. _Ten cuidado, chica._ The vivacious thirty-six-year-old had bumped heads with mudslides, violent storms, heinous rock climbs, but there was something more menacing about an unknown assailant. She couldn't look him or her in the eye and overcome the fear. Right now, information was her only ally.

She had examined the artifacts that she had acquired from Alejandro Garza's collection, looking for cracks and secret compartments. At the end of her search, she had discovered a yellowed piece of paper with a name on it. Evangeline Gosselin.

_Who was she?_ Her gut—and, as a superstitious woman, she always trusted her gut—told her that this woman was important, but she could not figure out why. Brow furrowed, she reached over and picked up the phone. Yes, she didn't know why, but she might know someone who would.

After two rings, a female voice came across the line with the sounds of pots and pans clanging against one another in the background. "Hello?"

"Hey _chica,_ it's Marisol," she greeted the woman.

The woman sighed heavily at the sound of Marisol's fatigue-laden voice. "Tell me that you're at home curled up in bed with a good book." When Marisol said nothing, she groaned. "Dammit, Mari. You need to put all of this to rest. You're going to wear yourself out trying to find something that's not there."

"It's there," Marisol insisted fervently. "Or something's there that I need to find. Look, this isn't the time to scold me. I called to ask you to do me favor."

"I'd be doing you a favor by hanging up the phone and making you get some rest. How long has it been since you've been to the doctor? Moira-Selene says you canceled your last appointment with her and didn't make a new one."

Marisol sighed. It was the same old tune, different station. "And this is what I get for having a doctor-turned-cook for a friend." When her friend made of sound of indignation and attempted to speak, Marisol added, "Don't dignify that with a response. Just listen. I found something odd in the stuff Izzy gave me. I don't know what to make of it."

"You didn't find that Globe thing did you? And why's it so important anyway?"

Marisol bit off the urge to tell her friend the whole story. She had decided from the outset that she would be the only person, besides Isabelle, that would bear the burden of knowing what was actually going on. And that was only because she'd browbeat it out of Isabelle when she'd called. "No, I didn't. I found this piece of paper with this name on it."

"What's the name?"

"Some woman. Evangeline—"

A loud sound in the background cut Marisol off. Her friend yelled at someone and more pots clanged. Marisol sighed and patiently waited until the clamor passed. Meanwhile, a soft thump from somewhere outside the office met her over-sensitive ears. She rose carefully, brown eyes sharp, and pressed the cordless up against her chest. She skirted the desk and walked to the doorway. Peering out, she saw the darkened museum only lit by the dim security lights and the shadows made by the display cases.

It took a couple of seconds for her friend's impatient voice to reach her ears. "Sorry," Marisol apologized distractedly. "I thought I heard something."

"You aren't there alone, are you?"

"I'll be fine," Marisol assured her, unearthing some impatience of her own. She didn't have time to be babied. "But that woman's name—"

"Oh yeah. Evangeline something? Did you have her last name?"

Marisol lingered at the doorway still, listening for more sounds. Frowning, she walked out of her office and roamed around, listening for more foreign sounds. "Gosselin."

On the other line, after a long pause, something shattered on the ground. That caught Marisol's full attention because the woman on the other end was quite dexterous and would not have easily dropped something. "What? Did you say Gosselin? Evangeline Gosselin?"

"Do you know who I'm talking about?"

The woman's voice was eerily calm when it came across the line again. "Mari, Evangeline Gosselin is my grandmother. My father's mother. Marisol, what does Isabelle Flannery's father have to do with my grandmother?"

Before Marisol could say anything, a loud crash came from somewhere outside of her office. She sighed. Those damn displays. They probably didn't screw them into the wall correctly. "I've gotta go, _chica_. I wish I could figure this out for you. I'll call you later if I find out anything."

"You better. And you better go straight home."

Marisol figured that anything less than a tacit agreement would incite another several minutes' scolding, and that was exactly what she gave. After exchanging goodbyes, she put the phone back on the charger and thought about the scolding she was going to give to two of her employees in the morning.

What she didn't know was that she wouldn't get to.

[----]

After the rousing post-dinner game of Charades, Sydney found herself cleaning her kitchen with Vaughn. It was the first time they had been really alone since she'd seen him off the other night. But Sydney felt little of the discomfort that had plagued them prior to their trip to Spain. She knew that she could attribute some of that to the friendly gathering that had just taken place. However, Sydney was astute enough to notice that Vaughn himself had relaxed around her. Whatever shield he had thrown up to defend himself from her had been carefully disarmed.

Isabelle was getting Sophie ready for bed as Nicole took a quick shower. Sydney had feared she would come to dread sharing a bathroom with three other females, but she found that Nicole and Isabelle were minimalists by nature; Nicole could take a thorough shower in two-and-a-half minutes while Isabelle elected to be the caboose on the nightly bath train. Both were refreshingly self-contained and tidy, but Sydney got the feeling they didn't feel like they were home. Sydney frowned over this as she scrubbed at the pan that had contained the mashed potatoes. A slow jam trickled out of Nicole's radio and added to the relaxed atmosphere.

_Don't be afraid of the way you feel_

_It's real love_

_Don't be afraid of the way you feel_

_It's real love_

Vaughn glanced over and saw her frowning. He dried clean silverware and placed it in a glass to be put away later.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Sydney shook her head. "Nothing. It's fine." She scrubbed at the pan, wanting to change the subject. Remembering the taste of the potatoes, she smiled faintly. "Wasn't dinner awesome? Nicole can really cook. I haven't eaten like that in a long, long time."

"Yeah," Vaughn agreed. Sydney placed the cleaned pot in the plain water on Vaughn's side and he picked it up to dry it. "I'm probably going to be doing a few extra sit-ups to work it all off. I had never had a baked strawberry pie before. And the lattice oatmeal topping…" He placed his hand on his heart as he pretended to swoon. "I thought I was going to die on that first bite."

"Better than sex," Sydney commented.

"Better than…" Sydney let out a nervous laugh as Vaughn gave her a dumbfounded look. "Wow. That's…that's sort of pushing it there. I think you might need to be reacquainted with some better sex."

"Mm-hmm. And you thinking about helping or something?"

Sydney pursed her lips together and tried to flight the flush that crept up on her cheeks. Nicole, now in comfy pants and a white wifebeater, stepped up into the kitchen, her brown eyes gleaming with amusement. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked to Vaughn. Vaughn decided to skirt his way around Nicole's question by suddenly deciding to look in on Isabelle and Sophie. Nicole smirked at him as he walked past her and into the guest bedroom.

"Is it my imagination or is the man just not getting any at home?" Nicole asked impishly.

Sydney gave her a look of disapproval. Nicole just blinked at her innocently. She turned back to the dishes and sensed Nicole stepping up to the spot Vaughn had formally occupied. After a few quiet moments of drying dishes and putting them away, Nicole remarked, "You're a stand-up gal, Sydney."

Sydney paused and shook her head. "I have this bad feeling I'm going to regret asking you why you think that."

Nicole made a gesture of dismissal. "Girl, don't be afraid of what you feel. Some women in your shoes would be knocking boots at the nearest Motel 6 with Michael Vaughn if they felt for him what you do." She closed a cabinet and stood beside Sydney again. "And we ain't gonna even talk about his wife."

Sydney raised an eyebrow at her tone. "Nicole, what is it about Lauren Reed that bothers you so much?"

"I can't trust the woman," Nicole admitted after a moment. "I feel like if I look away for one moment she'll drop-kick my ass. And Izzy won't even agree with me. She says I'm only hating on Lauren because she's with Vaughn and Izzy's not." She flicked a glance in Sydney's direction. "And you ain't either."

Nicole moved away to put up clean, dry plates and Sydney found herself looking at Nicole's back. "Nicole, I appreciate your confidence in me, but you can't dislike someone without knowing them first. If Lauren and Vaughn are together now it's because it's the way it's supposed to be and we have no right to mess with that."

Nicole turned around and Sydney saw her eyes roll. "Whatever you say," she muttered, and decided to change the subject. "So did y'all find out about that thing that was in Izzy's box? Is it by that Rambaldi guy?"

Sydney shook her head absently. The canister had been whisked away to be analyzed several days ago, and yet they received no updates about it. Every moment that passed without more information felt like a tense moment before the ax fell upon her neck. It was not a nice feeling, and she didn't want to think about it any longer. "So far nothing. I was wondering," Sydney began, deftly changing the subject herself, "how did you learn to cook like that?"

[----]

The night was dark and hid her well. Her long hair was stuffed into a black cap, and her willowy body was clad in black as well. She clung to the shadows to stay invisible. She could not risk being discovered especially now; she had just killed a woman.

The warehouse with the red door was within walking distance. She glanced across the street to make sure that the road was deserted. After a still moment, she dashed out and ran to the door. She knocked three times. After a moment, the door opened.

Underneath the light from a single bulb were chairs and a crate. She pulled the cap from her head and her golden hair spilled out. Behind her, her associate stopped.

"Is it done?" Sark asked.

"Marisol Sebastian is dead," Lauren told him. "However, she was talking to a friend on the phone about the name she found among the collection. We might have to take some measures to ensure the CIA doesn't learn of the name."

Sark shook his head and walked past her. He stopped underneath the lightbulb. "They won't understand what the name means, even when they learn of it."

Lauren crossed her arms over her chest. "Perhaps you should tell me what it means so I will not be out of the loop. I feel like there are some things that you are keeping from me. This doesn't seem conducive to our plans."

"I promise you, it is not intentional. Lauren, our plans are two-fold, and I did not inform you of that change." Sark paused thoughtfully. "You may come out now."

It was then that Lauren realized that there was someone else in the room. Tensed, she watched as a tall woman came out of the darkness, clad in dark clothes. Her long chestnut hair flowed freely down her back and her ice-blue eyes were cool. She regarded Lauren with equal parts disdain and distrust.

Lauren hated her instantly.

"Lauren, this is Samara Lewis," Sark said. He hesitated, taking in Lauren's blazing eyes in the semi-darkness, and made a decision. "However her real name is Darcy…Flannery."

Lauren's eyebrows came together at the name. She remembered off of the top of her head that Isabelle had a stepsister, one she hadn't seen in many years. As she took in the younger woman, she thought it was quite intriguing that one of the Flannery sisters was a Covenant member, which put her in direct opposition with her older sister.

Okay, so maybe Lauren felt a bit of respect for her at _that_. But it was marginal.

"So what do you know?" Lauren inquired.

Samara glanced at the unoccupied seat in front of her. "Sit down and I will tell you everything I know."


	13. Loss

**Chapter Twelve  
**_Loss_

It was the middle of the following day when Sydney noticed the dissention among Mr. and Mrs. Vaughn. The conversation between the duo was stiff and perfunctory; any sort of physical contact was avoided, and they seemed to arrive and leave separately. Vaughn had talked about spending many evenings at Sydney's place with her and their displaced trio, but Sydney figured it was because he wanted to get to know Sophie better. However, when Maria Fuentes, Isabelle's mother, was mentioned in the context of the strange documents found inside the safe-deposit box in New York at a briefing Wednesday, Sydney saw the flicker of bitterness in Lauren's eyes. She knew then—Vaughn had told Lauren the truth.

She knew about Isabelle…and Sophie.

Sydney felt a bit of sympathy for her…that is, until she suggested that just anyone could have planted the canister in the safe-deposit box in New York and the choice could have been random.

She didn't hesitate to disagree.

"I disagree," Sydney said coolly. Lauren turned green eyes just as cool upon Sydney. "Maria Fuentes was the wife of Alejandro Garza, and together they bore Isabelle. We can't ignore the fact that Garza had Covenant connections and an affection for Rambaldi artifacts. Someone wanted these pages in Isabelle's possession. Someone wanted her to have access to them."

"But why?" Vaughn inquired. He addressed Dixon with his next question. "Do we have any idea what the pages say?"

"The code keys used for previous Rambaldi documents so far have proven useless in cracking the code these pages are written in," Jack responded. He paused, then looked at his daughter. "That is, except for one of them." Sydney's mouth parted as if she wanted to say something, but then her father added, "This particular page…is blank."

The room went quiet. Everyone remembered, especially Sydney, the significance of the blank page 47. Sydney could feel Vaughn looking at her but she raised her gaze from the folder in front of her to Dixon at the head of their circle. She didn't want to see whatever lurked in Vaughn's eyes. Pursing her lips together and exhaling smoothly, Sydney decided to break the heavy silence that had fallen upon them.

"The liquid in the ampoule we have—does it work on this blank page?" Sydney wanted to know.

"No," Jack responded. "The page did not respond to the chemicals in the liquid."

"Are these pages really from Rambaldi, then?" Lauren wanted to know. "If nothing has worked, perhaps they are a clever forgery."

"The pages have the watermark," Dixon explained. "So they are part of a real Rambaldi manuscript. We just don't know what it could be about."

At that, Dixon discussed other issues and missions the task force was responsible for, but Sydney only half-listened.

After the briefing, Sydney rose from her seat and walked out of the room without saying a word. She ended up at her desk and it was only then that she realized that her heart was pounding. It was déjà vu; she recalled the moment Vaughn had showed her page 47; she recalled her fear and rage when the Department of Special Research all but abducted her because of it.

She froze when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She inhaled, straightening, and turned to face Michael Vaughn.

Sydney tried to swallow whatever emotions that were threatening to rise and spoke softly. "Um, maybe we should tell Isabelle about this."

Vaughn stared at her, his gaze searching her every cell, inside and outside. Concern lurked in his green eyes that had those raging sentiments intensifying. Among the most potent was regret.

"Yes, we will," Vaughn agreed. "But now I'm worried about you." She could see the flicker in his eyes as he realized that he could not touch her the way he used to. "This has to be a not-so welcome incident for you. I remember what anguish you went through when page 47 was revealed." His hand slid down her arm and touched her wrist. "I'm sorry."

Sydney nodded, not able to speak any words. The silence that fell between them was comfortable, sweet.

The sound of Dixon's shoes tapping across the floor snapped Sydney and Vaughn out of their moment. Jack followed him, and understanding that something huge was happening Weiss and Lauren came from their desks to hear what Dixon had to say.

"I just got word from the homicide lieutenant with the Gracia Police Department," Dixon began hurriedly, "that there was a shooting at a museum the other night." He paused a beat and looked Vaughn meaningfully. "The victim was Marisol Sebastian."

Vaughn sucked in a breath abruptly. His manner suddenly changed, and he thought of nothing but Isabelle. Sydney could see it in his eyes, but she could hardly blame him. She'd done the same.

However, Sydney detected the slightest frisson of resentment from Lauren.

"We have to assume that the Covenant thought of Marisol Sebastian as a danger to their acquisition of the Globe," Jack told the younger agents around him. "Until the investigation into her death is complete, we can only speculate. Not to mention, Isabelle could be in even greater danger at this stage."

The quiet that fell among them was brutal. Vaughn gazed at Dixon, and Dixon nodded imperceptibly. Without a backward glance, Vaughn stalked away. Sydney and Lauren, both with different purposes in mind, went after him.

"What are you doing?" Lauren demanded. "Please tell me you're not going to see Isabelle now."

"We have to tell her," Vaughn remarked urgently as he strode out of the pen with his car keys in hand. "She won't accept it from anyone else."

Lauren grabbed his arm, tried to slow him down. She only succeeded in making him vaguely irritated. "Michael," she implored him, "you need a moment to collect yourself. You can't go and give Isabelle the news this way."

A few steps behind them, Sydney disagreed. "Vaughn will hold." Vaughn paused and turned around to face her as Lauren merely shifted to stare at him without acknowledging Sydney. "If we don't tell her now, she'll find out from some news report on TV and that'll make her even more upset."

A bit shocked that Sydney was backing him, Vaughn lost some of his fervor and merely nodded. The look he gave Sydney was some parts relief, some parts gratitude. It was almost like old times.

Because of that, Sydney said, "I'll drive."

[----]

At Sydney's apartment, cleanliness and order ruled, per usual. There were no signs that Isabelle, Nicole, and Sophie occupied Sydney's living space except for the pictures that Sophie had drawn. A new one joined its mates on the refrigerator: a bird in flight. They saw Isabelle at the sink, clad in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt in a burnt orange hue. Her long curly mane was pulled back from her face with a clip. She was washing the dishes they had used for lunch.

"What's going on?" Isabelle emerged from Sydney's kitchen with a towel in her hands. She took in the solemn faces of the two CIA agents and the NSC liaison with a frown. "Has there been a new development?"

Her question was ill met with silence. Sydney and Vaughn shared a look, a look that Isabelle was too shrewd to ignore. She quirked an eyebrow at them as apprehension gnawed at her belly.

"Is there something you need to tell me?" Isabelle drew up as if to make herself look stronger, taller. "You can tell me. I'm not a weakling."

Vaughn squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he spoke to hold in the impending tears. "Isabelle, we do not think you're weak. Just bear with us—"

"I wish you would just tell me what's going on," Isabelle interrupted him. "Stop beating around the bush. Could it be that hard—?"

"Your best friend is dead, Isabelle," Vaughn snapped out in a manner reminiscent of ripping off a stubborn band-aid.

Blinking and shaking her head, she said, "What? My best friend…?"

"Marisol," Vaughn clarified with his green eyes blazing, over bright with emotion. "Marisol Sebastian is dead."

All of the blood drained from Isabelle's face leaving it the shade of wax paper. Her hands went limp and dropped at her sides. The dish towel that had formerly been in her competent hands fluttered soundlessly to the floor.

"No," she uttered, her voice ashen.

Vaughn's eyes watered a little as he shook his head and came toward her. "Isabelle—"

When her fortified composure startled to crumple, the chasm began at the trembling lips and then continued at the rapidly filling eyes. "Stop it. Stop telling me lies, Michael!" She balled up her fists and pounded them against his chest. "Marisol is not…"

"She's dead, Izzy," Vaughn insisted firmly, his voice husky with the anguish in his throat. He grabbed her thumping fists and held them forcefully as she tried to yank them away. The nickname was what fractured Isabelle into a sobbing mess. She shook her head in denial even as the tears poured from her eyes, and Vaughn nodded his head in opposition to her tearful rebuttal. "I'm sorry. She was killed last night at her museum in Gracia. They found her there this morning."

Sydney and Lauren both witnessed Isabelle's knees giving out from under her, and she collapsed into Vaughn's waiting arms. There she quietly wept against his chest, her shoulders shaking with the force of her grief. He closed his eyes as he held her against him, caressing her hair and telling her it would be all right as his dress shirt soaked up her tears. It was a familiar tableau for them, but not a comfortable one.

Sydney remembered Isabelle sitting on her couch with a throw pillow in her lap the other night. She remembered the affection in her eyes when she mentioned her mother and her best friend from childhood who had traveled the world. A friend who was a close second to the two most important people in her life at the moment. A friend who was now dead due to the machinations of an international terrorist organization that cared nothing for innocents like Marisol Sebastian. So the loss was not something that could be ignored; it was akin to losing a limb. And damned if Sydney Bristow didn't know how that felt.

Sydney stepped forward and placed her hand on Isabelle's quaking shoulder for moral support. But it didn't feel like enough; she wanted to offer more. So she stepped even closer and wrapped her arms around Isabelle. Sydney rested her cheek on the back of her curly head and took in her misery, presented warmth where it was slowly slipping away.

Vaughn opened his eyes a crack as if he had scented Sydney near. When he did, he found a pair of hazel eyes staring back at him. It had seemed that Isabelle had unknowingly bridged some gap between them while also become closer to each of them herself. For a moment, the union seemed out of the ordinary, almost outlandish. Especially with Lauren nearby.

Vaughn slid the hand that he'd had on Isabelle's arm down a fraction so that it was touching Sydney's. They stood as one.

And in the doorway, Nicole, amid her grief for Isabelle, watched Lauren Reed with a growing sense of suspicion.

[----]

Several miles away, thirty-two-year-old Jessica Thomas, in the middle of the dinner rush at the restaurant of which she was part owner, broke down into tears.

Detective Mick O'Lara, who was accompanied by his friend and counterpart for this expedition, Detective Kelvin Danner, relinquished professional stoicism and placed a comforting hand upon Jessica's quaking shoulder. He was relieved that Kelvin, who had known Jessica since high school, had had the foresight to take their exchange to the restaurant's cramped but efficient office away from prying eyes. From what Mick had heard about the fierce Jessica Kathleen Thomas, the happening of her bursting into such anguished tears was a rare sight indeed.

"You were the last person who had any contact with Ms. Sebastian, Jess," Kelvin said as Jessica seemed to be winding down. Mick hoped that his presence would soften Jessica enough to open up to them. "Did she seem to be in any danger when you last spoke?"

"She was at the museum alone," Jessica told Kelvin, swiping the back of her hand under her wet nose. "I told her she should be at home." Her mouth tightened. "While we were talking she said she thought she had heard something. Maybe…" Jessica shook her head and swallowed back anymore tears. Mick had to admire that in her; she had spine. "That sonofabitch who killed her was probably there when she talked to me. If she hadn't been distracted…"

"Did she routinely call you while at the museum alone, Ms. Thomas?" Mick asked.

Jessica raised her eyes to his, and those deep aqua pools were cool. "Marisol and I spoke routinely, Detective O'Lara, but she rarely called me from the museum unless she had something on her mind." As if listening to her own words, Jessica paused thoughtfully and stared off into space.

"What is it, Jess?" Kelvin inquired. "Do you remember something?"

_Marisol, what does Isabelle Flannery's father have to do with my grandmother?_

"_Grandmaman,"_ Jessica murmured idly.

Mick and Kelvin shared a glance. Before either one of them could speak, the door to the office opened and Cassandra Strattford appeared, flanked by three others. Seeing her cousin, Jessica went on alert, and Kelvin and Mick straightened when faced with their homicide lieutenant.

"Lieutenant Richardson-Cain," Kelvin said, sounding like he wanted to salute. In another situation, it would have been comical.

Jessica's face slackened. "Dawn," she managed.

Mick could not manage to put a clamp on his exasperation before it spewed out. "Aw hell, boss. What the hell is it now?" When Dawn laid blazing brown eyes on him, he only dug himself in deeper trouble by saying, "This had better be good."

"This is not a good time to be on my shit list, O'Lara," Dawn Richardson-Cain warned in a low, dangerous voice that was her trademark in the bullpen. Not wanting to go a round with the lieutenant in front of guests, Mick remained silent. Dawn gave a brisk nod to her detectives and they stepped back. She moved to allow a tall black man and a slim brunette access to the room—and Jessica.

"They needed to talk to you, Jess," Cassandra told her cousin calmly, but worry swam in her ice-blue eyes. "Is everything—?"

"We've got it from here, Cassandra," Dawn said gently. "You'd better go back out there before they start burning the tablecloths." Hearing the quiet dismissal in Dawn's voice, Cassandra sent her cousin a look before going back out into the melee. When the door was closed behind them, Dawn turned to address the three pairs of inquisitive eyes.

"I'm sorry for the interruption, Detectives, but it came to my attention that we might need assistance on this case." She gestured to the man and woman beside her. "These are Marcus Dixon, the Director of the Joint Task Force on Intelligence for the CIA, and one of the agents in his division, Sydney Bristow. It appears that Marisol Sebastian's death might be related to a case they are working on." She paused to allow for the detectives to exchanged acknowledgments with the two CIA agents then turned to Jessica. "I know all of this is overwhelming for you, Jessica, but you have to come with us."

Jessica's eyes widened. "You don't think I—"

"Jessica," Dawn interrupted, "I can't go into detail here. It's not safe." She lowered her tone, softened it for a friend. "You just have to trust me on this one."

Jessica's gaze flickered over Kelvin and Mick, then on Sydney and Dixon opposite them. After a humming moment, she lowered her chin and acquiesced to Dawn leading her out. The detectives and the two CIA agents followed.

[----]

Sometime later, the questioning resumed at CIA headquarters conference room. Dawn and Dixon were not in the conference room; they were trying to hack through the red tape that came with Gracia P.D.'s cooperation with the CIA. Kelvin had returned to the police station since he was not officially part of the case.

"Ms. Thomas, you have to tell us everything you remember about the conversation you had with Ms. Sebastian," Sydney began when they were settled in. "It is very important."

"Ms. Thomas was just telling us that Ms. Sebastian had something on her mind before you walked in," Mick told Sydney. He had decided that he was slightly annoyed with the CIA butting in on a homicide in which he was primary. But experience had taught him that jumping to conclusions were for dumbasses. So he would wait and see how things would turn out.

"I don't think it matters much," Jessica remarked archly. "I don't think it's going to help you find her killer to press me on the subject."

"We'll be the judge of that," Sydney countered. She crossed her arms and waited patiently for Jessica to speak.

Jessica stared at Sydney unflinchingly. "She called because she wanted to know if I could do something for her. She was probably going to ask me to look up someone. I have contacts in various areas as well as resources in most of North America and Europe."

Ah, Mick thought as he straightened. There's a bit of defensiveness in her tone… "Was it a friend? An old lover?"

"No," Jessica replied succinctly.

"So who was it?"

Jessica gazed warily at Mick as if sizing him up. She took in his tall, muscular frame, the curling dark brown hair that flirted with his collar. She assessed the sharpness in his gray-green eyes. She then lifted her water cup and took a long drink from it. As she lowered the cup, Sydney noticed her hand trembled and wondered if Jessica was scared. What could she be afraid of?

"Ms. Thomas?" Sydney prompted.

Jessica set the cup aside, addressed her inquisitors. "I had gotten a call from Marisol about a week ago. She was bemused, which was uncommon for her. She'd said she'd gotten a call from her best friend who had donated the new artifacts to her museum, and her friend had asked her if a certain thing was among the collection."

At this point, Mick looked sidelong at Sydney. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the invisible antenna on her head was vibrating. But he was fully aware that there was something beyond his comprehension was happening here. His resentment of the stunning CIA agent rose a few notches.

"She didn't find it straight out, but she'd examined all of the donated artifacts for anything." Jessica paused then and swallowed. "She'd said she found something strange. A piece of paper. With a name on it."

"A name?" Sydney leaned forward. "Did she tell you the name?"

Jessica chuckled sardonically. "Oh yeah. I dropped a plate when she did." Sydney arched a brow in question. To that, Jessica responded rather reluctantly, "Evangeline Gosselin. The name on the piece of paper was Evangeline Gosselin."

Sydney straightened, brow furrowed thoughtfully; this time, Mick leaned in. "Do you know this Evangeline Gosselin? After all, the mere mention of her induced you to drop a plate."

"Of course I know her. I've only known her for—oh—all my life." When Mick and Sydney looked perplexed, she clarified, "Evangeline Gosselin is my biological father's mother."

Mick remembered Jessica's expression in the office before Dawn had entered with the CIA at her heels. _Grandmaman._ In the silence that ensued after Jessica's statement, Sydney's mouth firmed. She issued Jessica a brisk thank you before rushing from the room.

Mick also excused himself and went after Sydney. Questions whizzing around in his mind, he caught up with the determined brunette and whirled her around. He figured a smart man would be burned by the searing glare that shot out of Sydney's eyes, but he could be pretty stupid sometimes. So he bore it and spoke.

"Now before you open your mouth and start snarling about CIA superiority," Mick began as Sydney's eyes narrowed and cooled, "I would like to remind you that Marisol Sebastian is one of mine. I will not just hand you my investigation to you on a silver platter. I promised her family I would find her killer and I always keep my promises."

When Sydney spoke again, her voice was low, even, and terse. "I am very sorry, Detective O'Lara, but Marisol Sebastian's death is possibly indicative of a problem you wouldn't have any idea how to handle so if you would excuse me"—she wrenched her arm out of his tight grip—"I have a job to do."

Mick crossed his arms over his chest. "How would you know I couldn't handle it?"

"This is not simple breaking and entering, Detective," Sydney told him. "This is an issue international in scope."

"So then I'll widen my scope." Sydney's mouth tightened but she said nothing. "I will not sit idly by as you usurp my homicide from me." Pausing for a bit and taking in the insolent gleam in Sydney's hazel-green eyes, he decided to try a different tack. A little reversal wouldn't hurt at this point. "At least let me help. I'm pretty sure you could use another head. Especially one that isn't thinking international in scope."

Sydney tilted her head slightly. "Do you think I wouldn't do right by Marisol Sebastian, Detective O'Lara?"

"You're thinking too big," Mick responded. "Marisol Sebastian and Gracia are just small specks on your map, Agent Bristow. So yes, I think you wouldn't do right by Marisol Sebastian."

Sydney took a good, long look at Mick O'Lara. He seemed the rough-and-tumble type, and a five-o'clock shadow shaded his jawline. He was your proverbial rough-edged man, but, if you looked into his eyes, there lied hints of a deeper determination and caring. Marisol Sebastian was not fodder for a filing cabinet for him; she was a real person who'd had her life snuffed out mercilessly, and he sought justice for her.

"I understand your reasoning, Detective O'Lara," Sydney finally said. "And what's even more, I don't resent you for it."

"Good to know. So why's this Evangeline Gosselin so important? Is she some sort of mob mama with terrorist connections?"

"There's no telling." She looked over Mick's shoulder and saw Lieutenant Cain walking down the hallway accompanied by Dixon. From the looks of it, they were deep in conversation, and she saw her name come from Dixon's lips a couple of times. Yeah, there was probably going to be no avoiding it now. When her eyes shifted, Mick frowned then followed her gaze.

"It looks like you're gonna have to play nice after all, Agent Bristow," Mick remarked. He looked back to her. "You don't bite do you?"

"Don't worry," Sydney quipped dryly as she crossed her arms over her chest. "I've got my shots."


	14. Intrusion

_**Author's Notes: **Sorry this took so long! I was stumped and made another plot change._

_Anyhow, a lot happens in this chapter and it's kind of long. But stick with it. A few mysteries will be cleared up in the next chapters, and our favorite couple might possibly have another scene alone, with some results..._

_Also, I had a formatting issue as I did with the Gifted, so if I've missed any apostrophes, quotation marks, or any other formatting I apologize in advance._

**_________________________________**

**Chapter Thirteen  
**_Intrusion_

When Sydney returned home that night, Isabelle and Sophie were already in bed. Nicole, clad in a tank and pajama pants with her legs tucked under her, was sitting on her couch with a book, and when the door opened, she marked her place in her book and put it aside. Nicole watched with inquisitive brown eyes as Sydney entered the living room area and frowned at her.

"I thought you'd be in bed by now," Sydney remarked. "It's almost midnight."

Nicole jerked a shoulder in a gesture of nonchalance. "I couldn't sleep." She motioned to the book. "I thought I'd read or something. Better than counting sheep."

Sydney came closer and the book beside Nicole came into view. Sydney was shocked to find that Nicole had been reading _Jane Eyre_. Her paperback copy was riddled with note-making tabs and dog-eared pages. Sydney lifted her eyes to Nicole's, and Nicole found shock there.

Nicole's eyebrows arched. "What--I can't read classic British lit?"

Sydney shrugged. "I just thought you'd be reading Zora Neale Hurston or Alice Walker. They seem more your type."

Nicole's right eyebrow rose over the left. "What--because I'm black?"

"Voice," Sydney responded truthfully. "I thought you'd like the theme of voice in some of their works more than you would in _Jane Eyre_."

Nicole seemed impressed by that. "I have a degree in English, you know, so I've read a lot of things. I just felt like reading this. But anyway..." Nicole glanced briefly in the direction of the guest bedroom where Isabelle and Sophie were sleeping. "Has anything changed?"

Sydney lowered herself to the couch and said nothing for a while. She felt the stare of the young woman on her face while she tried to figure out what she could tell her. The truth was, when it came down to it, Nicole was a civilian, and Sydney's job was to protect her from knowledge that could cost her her life. Sydney remembered Will and Francie, and their disastrous fates, and decided to do her job. The lying that had curdled her stomach had protected them from the world they barely knew about. Nicole could know nothing more. It would be better for her--and for all of them involved--in the long run.

"Sydney?" Sydney's gaze remained locked on the ground in front of her. "Um...you gonna answer my question?"

"Nicole," Sydney began in a quiet tone that contained all of the suffering she had endured from losing two people she loved because of her harrowing job, "from this point on, I will have to be less candid with you about this situation." When Nicole sighed in frustration, Sydney shifted to face her. "This is for your protection."

Nicole chuckled dryly. "For my _protection_. Are you serious? I hate to be like this, but Isabelle, Sophie and me? Yeah, we're in some deep shit because of this situation, and as far as I'm concerned the more we know the better. And it doesn't help matters that Marisol was killed--"

"Marisol was not killed by some two-bit amateur," Sydney interrupted sharply. "She was not killed because someone wanted to steal her wallet or pawn her jewelry. She was killed because someone wanted to ensure her silence--for good. It is extremely possible she was killed by someone who was sent by people you really don't want to mess with." Nicole drew up then and appeared insulted. "Now I don't doubt that you could hold your own in a bind, but I don't think you could take down a whole terrorist organization. Trust me when I tell you that you don't want to know what I know. Trust me when I say that you don't want to know what I've seen. You are much better off just the way you are."

When Sydney was finished, her brown eyes blazing and her breathing slightly elevated, Nicole stared at her.

"All right, fine," Nicole said after a tense silence. "What _can_ you tell me, then?"

A cry from the other room jolted them from the circumstance at hand. Nicole and Sydney were both at the doorway before either one realized theyd even moved. Instinctively, Sydney moved in front of Nicole as if to protect her if anything was amiss. Nicole pursed her lips but said nothing. Sydney inhaled sharply and threw open the door. Beside her, Nicole flicked on the light and braced herself.

Isabelle was in the throes of a violent nightmare, her slim frame twisted up in the sheets. The thin nightshirt Isabelle had donned for bed was made even thinner by the sweat that coated her thrashing body. She cried feverishly in her sleep, and her daughter, eyes wide with terror, tried with all of her might to shake her from her slumber.

"Mami!" Sophie exclaimed tearfully. _"Despiertate!"_

Nicole rushed to the bed and carefully extracted Sophie so that Sydney could awaken Isabelle.

"Isabelle," Sydney began as she shook her, "wake up."

In her sleep, Isabelle shook wildly in Sydneys grasp. "No!" she cried._ "Por favor, no me dejes! No mueras por mi!"_

Sophie sobbed in Nicole's arms as Sydney brought her mother to a sitting position. Sydney gave Isabelle one good shake and brought her out of her stupor. Isabelle gasped out panting breaths as she took in her bearings. She shuddered out a sob as she spotted Sophie crying in Nicole's arms.

"Oh God." Isabelle held her arms out for Sophie, when she had her daughter in her arms she clutched her tightly. After Sophie had quieted, Isabelle turned to Sydney. "I am so sorry. I--"

"You were having a very bad nightmare," Sydney said soothingly, stopping her before she could apologize for something she had no control over. "Are you all right now?"

Isabelle attempted some calming breaths before speaking. "I'm...I'll be fine."

"What the hell were you dreaming about? Can you remember?" Nicole wanted to know.

Isabelle stared at Nicole grimly. "I don't think I could ever forget it." Sensing that she was going to explain what she had dreamt about, Nicole climbed onto the bed to be beside her for support. "I was..." She looked down at her child idly. "I was being beaten--"

Nicole's eyes went wide, and she looked as if she wanted to start swinging at someone. "Somebody was _beating_ you?! When the--?!"

Isabelle shook her head before Nicole could start talking about Vaseline and straight razors. "Calm down--it wasnt me, Nicole. It was the dream me." Nicole said nothing to that, just pursed her lips together. After another moment, Isabelle spoke again. It was dark--late at night. The street we were on was deserted. I was with someone. We were in a heated discussion We were both emotionally distraught. We..." She blinked as snippets of the dream came back to her with startling clearness. "She had slept with my husband--and I knew it was going to happen."

Sydney and Nicole shared a look, eyebrows arched_. Are you going to say it or am I?_ Nicole's expression seemed to say. Sydney narrowed her eyes to indicate that she thought _neither one of them should say a word_. Nicole's eyes narrowed but she said nothing.

"We were talking when this teenage boy came up. Before we knew it, he attacked me. She--the person I was with--she tried to fight him off. She fought very well, in fact." Sorrow crossed her features. "Not well enough, unfortunately."

Sydney patted her hand and squeezed it. "We understand what you mean."

Isabelle swallowed hard then, and even though moisture filled in her eyes, she made a manful attempt not to cry. "He beat her within an inch of her life before..." She had to stop and put her lips together to keep them from trembling. "I killed him. I found some power inside of me and killed him. And when he laid dead in a pool of in his own blood, I...I knelt next to her and pleaded with her not to die for me. But she couldn't help that the life had been beaten out of her..." She trailed off then as she tried to control the emotions she couldnt help. After a long lull, she remarked in a half-stunned, half-apologetic tone, "It was a very vivid dream."

"Sounds like it," Sydney agreed. She reached out and squeezed Isabelles hand. "Maybe all this business with Marisol is giving you nightmares."

Nicole frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. "You know, I never have dreams that vivid. As crazy as it sounds, you might have had a flashback or something."

"A flashback, Nicole?" Practical Sydney sounded dubious.

Nicole shrugged. "I mean, can you remember the last time you had a really intense dream like that?" Sydney did, but she wasnt going to let Nicole know that particular piece of information. "We all have nightmares, but I can't imagine it just being this vivid, you know what I mean? Maybe she was this woman in a different life or something."

"Well, there was one face I clearly remember," Isabelle said thoughtfully. As the image came to the forefront of her brain, her mouth went slack and her chin trembled. She looked sorrowfully at Sydney. "Oh, Sydney.."

"The face, Isabelle," Sydney said gently but firmly. "Whose was it?"

"Yours," Isabelle responded, voice nearly at a whisper. "The face was yours."

[----]

Nicole closed the door behind her half-an-hour later, brown eyes shadowed. She leaned on the door for a moment and closed her eyes. When she opened her eyes and spoke, it was in a low, fatigued tone.

"What the hell was_ that_?" she demanded.

Sydney crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head wearily. It had already been a hell of a day, and this just capped it. This whole nightmare business pretty much capped it. "I wish I knew. If I did I would tell you. But all I know is things are about to get really strange."

Nicole emitted a sardonic chuckle. "Oh--its already there, Sydney, trust me." It was her turn to shake her head. "I don't see why you were in Izzy's dream."

Sydney said nothing to that because, quite frankly, she didnt want to think about why Isabelle had dreamed of her in such a dire situation. Suddenly, something occurred to them both. Nicole raised an eyebrow at Sydney and gazed at her meaningfully.

"I wasnt going to tell him, Nicole," Sydney assured her. "Not unless it got out of hand."

"'Cause you know the first thing he's gonna do is overreact," Nicole continued in case Sydney decided otherwise. "And the last thing we need is Vaughn here pressing Izzy on this. She's already torn up about losing Marisol."

_"I'm not going to tell him,"_ Sydney assured Nicole more firmly. "I promise. Now look--I need to go to bed, and I think you should too."

Nicole grumbled but agreed. With that, they both trudged tiredly to bed, weighted down with the strange events of the evening.

[----]

A few days later, Vaughn noticed that Sydney seemed withdrawn.

She was not usually Ms. Popular, but Sydney was a team player like most of them, so when she mainly remained at her desk doing computer searches most of the morning, Vaughn became concerned. He knew very little about the Gracia Police Department's investigation of Marisol's death, and he had not spoken to Sydney yet. He had heard about her interview with Jessica Thomas and figured something salient had come from it. He hadn't been around to ask since a Covenant-related assignment had sent him overseas, so he hadn't communicated with anyone in almost two days, including his wife.

Sydney didn't even bat an eyelash when he came over and stood at her shoulder before he went off to lunch. She was engrossed in the document on her screen. When she didn't say anything, Vaughn trained his own eyes on the screen.

**_Name:_**_ Evangeline Gosselin  
_**_Date of Birth: _**_February 23, 1933  
_**_Place of Birth:_**_ Nice, __France  
_**_Place(s) of Residence:_**_ Nice, __France  
_**_Hair:_**_ Brown (Gray)  
_**_Eyes:_**_ Hazel  
_**_Height:_**_ 5'6"  
_**_Occupation:_**_ Sociologist  
_**_Education:_**_ B.S. in Sociology; Doctorates in Sociology and Women's Studies  
_**_Parents:_**_ Adele Pascal (Mother, deceased), Jean-Marc Gosselin (Father, deceased)  
_**_Siblings:_**_ None  
_**_Spouse:_**_ William Bullock (Deceased)  
_**_Offspring:_**_ Robert Isaac Bullock, __Sharon__ Nichole Bullock Harrison, Bridget Elise Gosselin Flannery  
_**_Grandchildren:_**_ Amber Roxette Bullock, Derrick Timothy Bullock, Emily Samantha Gabrielle Bullock, Jessica Kathleen Robyn Thomas, Eric Ashton David Thomas, Claudia-Michelle Ellen Thomas, Moira-Selene Eleanor Thomas, Daniella Elizabeth Melissa Thomas, Gretchen Ashleigh Amanda Thomas, Cordelia Westcott Harrison, Julianne Rebecca Harrison, Victoria Katherine Marie Harrison  
_**_Great-Grandchildren:_**_ Shannon Marieanne Thomas, Abigail Josephine Thomas_

"Bridget Gosselin Flannery," Vaughn remarked thoughtfully, causing Sydney to break her gaze from the screen and gaze at him bemusedly. "That name sounds very familiar."

As she had just looked up Evangeline Gosselin's profile and hadn't gotten as far as her offspring yet, Sydney found Vaughn's intrusion both bothersome and illuminating. She chose to find it illuminating and did a quick search on Evangeline Gosselin's youngest daughter.

**_Name:_**_ Bridget Elise Gosselin  
_**_Date of Birth:_**_March 7, 1970  
_**_Place(s) of Residence:_**_ Nice, __France__; __London__, __England__; __Los Angeles__, __California  
_**_Place of Birth:_**_ Nice, __France  
_**_Hair:_**_ Brown  
_**_Eyes:_**_ Hazel  
_**_Height:_**_ 5'7"  
_**_Occupation:_**_ Anthropologist  
_**_Education:_**_ B.S. in Anthropology from the __University__ of __California  
_**_Parents:_**_ Evangeline Gosselin (Mother), William Bullock (Father, deceased)  
_**_Siblings:_**_ Robert Isaac Bullock, __Sharon__ Nichole Bullock Harrison  
_**_Spouse:_**_ Jonathan Lamar Flannery (Deceased)_

"Oh my God," Vaughn muttered in shock.

"Isabelle's dead brother had a wife?" Sydney inquired, her thoughts following the same track as Vaughn's. "And she was Evangeline Gosselin's daughter?" She shook her head in disbelief and rubbed her tired eyes. "This is some coincidence."

"I'll say." Vaughn looked down at his bemused co-worker as something occurred to him. "Hey--what made you look up this Evangeline Gosselin anyway? I know you didn't pick this name out of a hat."

Sydney sighed. She swiveled in her chair so that she could speak in a low tone and he would hear her. "A few nights ago, I interviewed Jessica Thomas with the detective on Marisol's case. She mentioned that she had been on the telephone with Marisol before she died, and Marisol had found Evangeline's name written on a piece of paper hidden among the artifacts Isabelle had donated."

"So somehow Evangeline and Alejandro Garza knew each other," Vaughn hedged.

Sydney nodded. "Right. And I have this feeling they didn't meet at a backyard barbeque." She saved the data to a file and closed the windows on the computer screen. "Listen, do you mind keeping this to yourself? I don't want anyone bothering Isabelle until I get to the bottom of this. It's likely she didn't even know about Evangeline Gosselin's connection to her father outside of Bridget's marriage to Jonathan Flannery."

As Sydney shifted away to gather papers to put neatly in a file, Vaughn inquired, "How is Isabelle? Is she...?"

Sydney put the file in her briefcase. She'd made the decision with Nicole's agreement not to tell Vaughn about Isabelle's strange nightmare. There was no sense in worrying him further. "She's fine."

"I was thinking about taking her out to lunch, get her out of the house some." He frowned at her. "But you don't seem all right."

Startled, Sydney looked up at Vaughn. She spied genuine concern in his eyes that disconcerted her slightly. For a moment she had gotten used to his cool professionalism toward her at work even though they more often than not saw each other after work at the dinner table. Perhaps Nicole was right, and he wasnt getting any at home. Not wanting to think anymore about Vaughn getting any or not, she forced a smile. "I appreciate your concern, Vaughn, but I'm fine."

Vaughn was prepared to refute her claim when Lauren strode up. Sydney didn't even have to look behind her; the scent of Lauren's signature perfume confirmed her identity and had irritation and dread pooling in her belly.

"Excuse me," Lauren began, "is it possible that I could borrow my husband for a moment?"

Sydney opened her mouth to say that she didn't care, but Vaughn interjected. "I actually have plans," Vaughn said in a voice that was decidedly cool. Sydney had to fight to keep her face schooled to blankness. "We will have to talk later."

"Plans?" Lauren repeated, sounding slightly puzzled as if she hadn't expected Vaughn to refuse her.

"I am going to have lunch with Isabelle and Sophie," Vaughn explained in that same cool tone. "And if I know Isabelle, Nicole will be there, too."

At the mention of Nicole, Laurens eyes cooled considerably. "I see," she simply said.

"Isabelle likely hasnt been out of the house or seen anyone whos not part of her household since Marisol was killed," Vaughn explained.

"And maybe she doesnt need to be," Lauren pointed out before he could go any further. "Couldn't whoever came after Marisol come after her, too? You could be putting her in considerable danger, Michael."

"I would never put Isabelle into any danger, trust me," Vaughn shot back, sounding slightly defensive. Deeming the matter closed, he shifted to Sydney and said, "Keep me posted on the case, Sydney."

"I will, Vaughn. Maybe well have a new development today," Sydney told him. "Mick and I are following some leads during lunch."

Vaughn was poised to leave the scene, but something in Sydney's voice had him rooted in place for an instant longer than necessary. Ah yes--the mentioning of Detective O'Lara by his first name. _Were they close? Were they more than friends? Had things changed that drastically since he'd been overseas?_ Sydney's gaze narrowed a touch and her head tilted as she spotted those questions in his eyes. The silence that descended upon them was like smoke, heavy and hard to breathe through.

"Well, good luck then," Vaughn managed before walking away.

"Thanks," Sydney murmured, watching him walk away. She signed off of her computer and grabbed her purse, fully cognizant of Lauren standing at her elbow. She rose and turned to leave herself but found herself face-to-face with her.

Her heart knocked against her rib cage once before thumping in a normal rhythm. This was the closest she'd been to Lauren in a long time and she was bemused by what she saw and felt. Sydney could sense her frustration, but there was a sort of calculated gleam in her eyes that had Sydney's antenna vibrating.

"Yes, Lauren?" Sydney pressed.

There was a hesitation in which Lauren seemed to weigh something in her mind. She came to a decision and spoke.

"Let Isabelle know she's in my thoughts," Lauren said, something in her eyes that Sydney couldn't read. She merely nodded at the statement and walked off with the nagging feeling that Isabelle being in Lauren's thoughts was probably not a good thing.

[----]

A few miles away, Julian Sark snapped his cell phone shut, eyes cloudy with thoughtfulness.

At a table in front of a laptop across from him, Samara, clad in dark jeans and a charcoal top with a crew neck, stared at him quizzically when he didn't elaborate. The hotel suite they had sequestered under the alias of a newly married Midwestern couple was littered with electronics and had been fraught with a sort quiet tension that made Samara uncomfortable.

Things had shifted so quickly in the past few days that Samara had to try and keep up. No longer was the Covenant the same organization she'd joined some years previous; all of the cell leaders had been wiped out, and their bracelets were in a protective case in the other room. The three of them--Lauren, Samara, and Sark--had waged an attack so swift that no one had seen it coming. Lauren and Sark had carried out the first two kills together while Samara had been on her own for two and Sark finished up the last two; when she had joined up with Sark again forty-eight hours ago, there was something different in the way he spoke about Lauren.

When a vaguely affectionate expression flashed over his features, Samara knew.

_He had slept with Lauren Reed._

It was hard to say how she felt about this. In reality, nothing that Sark did was any of her concern--unless of course it had to do with their current mission, which had two parts: one, secure a better place in the Covenant hierarchy and two, acquire the Globe before anyone--and that included the CIA--learned of its importance. However, a part of her realized that his becoming intimate with Lauren Reed would make things among the three of them more tense. She was not stupid. She had seen her share of threesomes--professional, of course--go belly up at the pairing off of two of the members. The possibility of the predicament spiraling out of control with the power they now had curdled her stomach.

Sark rose from the bed and put the cell in the pocket of his black slacks. "That was Lauren." Samara had already known that. "Apparently Agent Bristow has looked up Evangeline Gosselin. She overheard Sydney and Vaughn talking about Gosselin's daughter and her late son-in-law." He paused meaningfully. "Your half-brother."

"Yes, he eloped with Bridget Gosselin a mere two years before his death," Samara told him. "My mother had been so angry at him for doing such a reckless thing that they never quite made up before he was killed. I only met Bridget once, but I could find her if I needed to". A cheerful _ding _had her turning to her computer; she had a new e-mail.

"I think its time to visit Ms. Gosselin and your former sister-in-law," Sark commented as Samara read her e-mail. "Could you--?"

"I've located Evangeline Gosselin," Samara interrupted, gaining much satisfaction out of cutting him off. She could sense his irritation but didn't address it. "According to my source, she is currently at her home in eastern Normandy. Bridget is somewhere here in North America. Her trail was lost somewhere in Mexico a week ago. No one's seen her since."

"She'll turn up," Sark assured her. "And I have a feeling she might be heading toward your half-sister because of all of this insanity with the Globe." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I'll have Lauren keep her eyes and ears open. She'll be the best asset if that predicament occurs."

"Hmm." Samara clicked out of the window. "It seems Ms. Reed has a lot of useful assets." She flicked glacier-hued eyes toward him meaningfully. "And you seem to know an awful lot about them."

Something flickered across Sarks facea bit of puzzlement mixed in with annoyance. "It pays for me to know about the people with whom I associate, Samara. I happen to know many things about you as well."

"That may be so, but I doubt you've seen me naked, "Samara countered.

Well, she certainly had him there. And with the loudness of his non-response, Samara had confirmation, and the acid in her belly burned like the fire of a thousand suns. He lowered himself to the bed again, trying to find the best way to address this. To be honest, he had no personal ties to Samara, and while she had saved him from CIA custody, that didn't entitle her to judge him.

"Julian, what have you done?" she asked with an astonished disbelief as she stood over him. "You cannot have sexual relations with Lauren Reed."

The cold look he leveled upon her would have withered a lesser womanbut she was not a lesser woman. "I find your criticism of a personal matter irritating, ill-timed, and sophomoric, Samara. Whatever you may feel about Lauren Reed is your business, and whatever I feel is mine."

"And when those feelings bleed into our work, Julian, then were going to be seriously fucked over," Samara said sharply. "I've managed to suppress whatever disdain I have, but it seems you can't do the same with your lust."

When he struck out with his hand, it took Samara an instant to react, but her reaction didn't register in her own mind until Sark was on the bed with his arm twisted perilously behind his back and the throbbing in her cheekbone began.

"Dammit, Samara--?!" Sark growled, his voice muffled by the comforter on the bed. Samaras knee was digging into his back and he could not move. At that moment, Sark's phone chose to buzz, signaling a new call. With her free hand, she dug into Sark's pocket and pulled out the cell. She answered gruffly, but had not been expecting the greeting awaiting her on the other side.

"Hello, Samara. Or should I say _Darcy_?"

Samara went cold at the sound of her birthname and she loosened her grip on Sark. "How did you get this number?"

"I should have known you were behind this," continued the voice. "You would do anything to save your own hide, including getting behind a plot to kill all of the Covenant cell leaders before they could figure out who you were."

"And you would do the same damn thing," Samara pointed out. She yelped as Sark rolled over and knocked her on her ass. The phone flew out of her hands and Sark intercepted it. As she seethed in anger, Sark spoke smoothly into the phone as if he hadn't just been on his stomach in an immobilizing half-nelson.

"Hello? May I ask who's calling?" After a pause, he raised his eyes to Samara's. The bruise on her cheekbone was starting to color, placing a shadow under her left eye. His lips slowly curved into a smile as he listened to the voice on the other end. "Oh yes. I know who you are."

[----]

On the way to Sydney's, Vaughn thought of the women in his life.

It was peculiar that he had more than one female on his mind. He'd thought that kind of behavior was relegated to men like Weiss, who, bless his heart, had a passion for the female sex, but these were stranger-than-normal circumstances. The mother of his child was being pursued by an international terrorist group, his wife was angered by the newfound knowledge of the mother of his child and the child herself, and his ex-girlfriend and co-worker about whom hed had several disruptive dreams was hanging out with an attractive detective for hours on end. Oh yeah--and then there was Nicole with her strawberry pies and pot roasts. Needless to say, the influx of women creatures was causing him great distress.

But he wouldn't be rid of any one of them. A more cynical person would say that was the problem.

Sophie was at the top of his list without a doubt. The more he learned about his daughter, the more fascinating she became. She enjoyed sports and could draw quite skillfully. And her admiration of him was like a balm, soothing all of the jagged tears the past few weeks had left upon him. In second, Isabelle and Sydney crowded in whenever other preoccupations abated. The two women had become close, and for that Vaughn was thankful because Isabelle would need some support after Marisol's death. However, he had the nagging feeling that they were hiding something from him, which nibbled at him mentally more than the fact that Lauren was mad at him.

Weeks ago, things would have been different. He would have been horrified that he had to sleep on the couch away from his marital bed. He also didn't have Isabelle and Sophie in his life then. It made him question everything that he had built up in the subsequent two years since Sydney's death--especially his marriage.

He decided to put it away for later. If Isabelle noticed, she would grill him about it. And she didn't need to worry about anyone else but herself and Sophie. Not to mention she would mention it to Sydney and Nicole--and he didn't need that complication. Not when things were so twisted up inside of him at the moment. _Mick and I are following some leads during lunch._ Definitely twisted.

Before he tapped the brakes to stop in front of Sydney's, he idly looked up at the house...

...And saw a flash of slate-blue fabric disappear into the hedges.

His next actions were so automatic, so quick, that they blurred together in his head. Later, when he brought the memories back, he could barely separate the stopping of the car with the leaping out of it, or the dash across Sydney's yard with the gun in his hand. He must have yelled something along the lines of _Stop, CIA!_ because the man glanced back and Vaughn was treated with a glimpse of his profile. It was one that was slightly familiar, one that had a little red car springing to mind.

Vaughn cornered him in the backyard and ordered for him to turn around with his hands behind his head. When the man whirled with his hands raised, Vaughn found himself face-to-face with a familiar set of blue eyes.


	15. Shield

**_Author's Notes:_ **_I feel mixed about this chapter. It's shorter than the others, but some crazy stuff happens. You finally get to meet another of Isabelle's siblings, and for this story, Delia Garza has the position in the Covenant that McKenas Cole has in the regular series. In the next chapter, I hope to have a flashback via Sydney that will go toward explaining the statement **"a startling Rambaldi secret that may tie Sydney, Vaughn, and Isabelle to him more than they want."**_ _(from the summary)_

_Why "Shield"? Well, there are many types of them, literal and figurative, and sometimes they don't work..._

_I want to thank **Melody Anne** for reviewing. Thank you for being interested in my story! Like I said, I'm not sure what I'm going to do with Samara. She could very well get shot somewhere--maybe her bum. No, I'm jesting. Oh well. Read on, mates!_

_Standard disclaimer applies: I don't own Alias or any of the characters. You can tell which ones are mine._

**____________________**

**Chapter Fourteen  
**_Shield_

Before Vaughn could speak, the sliding glass door slid open and Nicole dashed out. He could hear Isabelle yelling after her and wondered if this could get any worse.

"Get back inside!" Vaughn barked at Nicole without taking his eyes—or the aim of his gun—off of the man.

"Ex_cuse_ me?" Nicole asked, her tone indicating she'd give him hell over ordering her around. "And you," she continued to the mysterious man. "Where _the hell_ have you been? You act like you can't give your sister a call and stop her from worrying about your punk ass."

"I've been busy," the man said tersely as he too kept his eyes on Vaughn.

"Yeah, but I'll bet half a mil your fingers ain't broke!" Nicole pointed out angrily, hands on hips.

Growling with frustration as Nicole and the guy began a pissing match in clamorous tones that would definitely draw attention where it was _not_ needed, Vaughn holstered his gun and went for Nicole since she was the catalyst in this scenario. He hefted her onto his shoulder. Nicole had barely any time to react before Vaughn marched into Sydney's house bearing her on his shoulder. As Nicole loudly and vocally dissented, the man sighed and followed Vaughn into Sydney's house.

Nicole squirmed like a hellcat until Vaughn set her down on the floor. When she was on her feet and Vaughn was busy securing the sliding glass door, she went for their mysterious visitor with her fists balled. No, there would be no claws for Nicole Smith; those seemed too feminine. Nicole was more like a feral bull charging horns first for her prey. He caught her fists before they could land on his handsome visage. Hands flexing, he held them with a viselike grip, making things decidedly tenser between them.

"Would you shut up for one fucking minute?" the guy said through clenched teeth and shook her once. "This is not the time for you to act out a scene from _Set It Off_."

"You tried to break into the house of a CIA agent," Nicole snapped back in a firm, clipped tone that had Vaughn's estimation of her rising a few notches. "Not to mention, you suddenly decided to go MIA and Isabelle's been so worried that it makes her sick at night and I have to calm her down. So guess what? It is quite the fucking time for me to be acting like this. You have five seconds to explain what the hell you were doing before I bury my knee so far up your crotch that your breath's gonna smell like—"

"Enough," Vaughn interrupted before Nicole could finish her statement. She had pretty much said what needed to be said in her own frank, tactless way, and he couldn't find fault with her threat, even though he'd felt a pang of phantom pain in his nether regions despite the situation.

"_Dios Mío,"_ came a familiar murmur from the doorway. The three of them went still at the sound of Isabelle's voice, and the anger fled the room when she stepped into it. Her green eyes were damp with tears and they stayed trained on those blue eyes that were filled with anguish. When she neared him, he released Nicole so abruptly that she stumbled back a few inches.

"Jamie," Isabelle began in a hushed tone, _"¿dónde has estado?"_

James Lisandro Flannery was not an easily shaken or intimidated young man. Vaughn remembered the insolent teenager who had borrowed his big sister's new red sportscar and rear-ended him nearly eight years ago. He'd been an unflappable smart ass then. But faced with his big sister with whom he shared a mother, that cheeky veneer started to crumble and reveal someone more fragile and endearing.

"I've been…" Jamie sighed in frustration as if he had hit a roadblock. Nicole pursed her lips together and raised an eyebrow. "Look—it's not important where I've been exactly. What's more important is what I've been doing—and what I've found out."

"You're damn right about that," Vaughn said. "And if I sense you holding out on me, you're going into CIA custody."

"Fuck the CIA and fuck you," Jamie snapped back, blue eyes blazing. "This has nothing to do with you, Vaughn, so stay out of it."

Before Vaughn could speak, Isabelle glared at her little brother. "This has plenty to do with him," she disagreed. "Just as much as it has plenty to do with me. So stop being vague and tell us what you know." When Jamie seemed hesitant, Isabelle frowned at him. "I hope you're not going to keep anything from me. That would upset me, Jamie."

"You really shouldn't be involved in all of this, Isabelle," Jamie told her. Nicole winced, knowing Isabelle would detest her brother telling her that she shouldn't be involved. Hell, she was already involved. _Too late for that,_ hermano, Nicole thought.

"I shouldn't be involved? Jamie, a strange man came into my house and threatened my life for that damned artifact," Isabelle snapped. "So I couldn't be more involved if I tried."

"This isn't some scavenger hunt where you can get some nice little prize at the end. I honestly think—"

"That's just it," Isabelle lashed out. "You_ don't_ think. You don't understand that there's no way that you can keep this from me."

"Isabelle," Vaughn began firmly, earning her fierce green-eyed stare. "Jamie has a small point. I think it would be better for you and all of us if you were less involved."

"Michael," Isabelle said quietly, her tone indicating that Vaughn and Jamie should prepare for battle, "are you telling me to back off?"

Jamie glanced at Vaughn then spoke. "We're just trying to protect you."

After taking a glance at Isabelle's face, Nicole took two full steps back, leaving Jamie and Vaughn to take the brunt of the volcanic eruption that was to come. She was no wuss, but she knew when she didn't want to be in the middle of a fight she had nothing to do with. Not to mention, she knew Isabelle could take Vaughn and Jamie without lifting a finger.

"I _don't want_ to be protected," Isabelle told him tersely. _"I don't need it."_

"Fine," Vaughn said harshly. "You wanna play hardball, Isabelle? Well, let's play hardball. Pack your things. I'm moving you to a safe house—tonight. You may not want to be protected, you may not think you need it, but dammit you're going to get it."

Nicole couldn't help being stirred by this new development. "Ex_cuse_ me?" she drawled, hip cocked in a stance of imminent talking-badness.

"Don't argue with me," Vaughn said with some authority. "I can have you thrown into a cell—"

"Like hell you will," Isabelle interrupted him coldly.

"Damn right," Nicole agreed. "I'm a grown ass woman, and so is she. Don't try to put your foot down just 'cause you think you can. It ain't gonna work."

Thinking about the reason he came and that the present state was veering dangerous—and clamorously—off-course, Jamie sighed and attempted, "Guys, this isn't the time for you to be arguing—"

"That is _my_ child in there," Vaughn was saying. "And damned if she's going to be mixed up in this precarious scheme just because you think that I'm undermining your strength."

"That is not what this is about, Michael," Isabelle insisted. "This is about me getting back my life. My father made some choices and did some things that set us on the course we're on now, and I want to be the one who fixes it. And damned if I let you take that away from me."

"Heard that," Nicole said. "You've gotta be out your mind if you think Isabelle would ever put Sophie in danger. She's doing this because she wants to protect her. She's tired of being in the backseat. She wants to do something. Why can't you let her?"

"I'm not risking her life," Vaughn responded. "Sydney would kill me, and so would you."

"I have to say I'd be closer to the urge now," Nicole muttered.

Jamie, seeing no other way to end the emotional tempest, simply dropped this bombshell upon his unsuspecting comrades: "You guys, I know where the Globe is."

And with that everyone froze.

[----]

Maureen Thomas had been born in Valladolid, Spain, nearly forty years ago. As a toddler, she traveled with her parents and older sisters to the United States, so she barely remembered living overseas. But when she died in her early twenties, as far as the world knew, Delia Morena Tomas had been born in the same place Maureen Thomas had entered the world.

Several years after her own "birth," Delia met Alejandro Garza. What happened between them during the time of their courtship was wildly speculated but had not been confirmed, and Delia relished in the air of mystique it gave her.

Delia, clad in a cocktail dress that looked better suited for a party rather than a briefing, placed the flute of champagne, the liquid a matching hue with her attire, aside and turned to her audience. The smoothness of her movements belied the urgency of the moment—but then again, a woman so highly placed within such an organization like the Covenant had to possess nerves of steel around so many powerful men. Though, if anyone had cared to ask Delia what she thought about it, she would have laughed it off. She didn't think gender itself made anyone superior—it was how they chose to use it that was important to her. And as she regarded Julian Sark and Darcy Flannery—who chose to be called Samara these days out of self-preservation—she figured they would think the same.

"All of the cell leaders of the Covenant are dead at your hands," Delia began in an even tone that showed neither approval nor reproach. "Lauren Reed, the missing third of your little triumvirate, is currently trying to siphon intel from the CIA on the inside amidst her assistance in your plans. Isabelle Flannery has reunited with Michael Vaughn and Sydney Bristow, and the Globe is still missing, along with the matching artifacts." Delia paused then, her light eyes clouding thoughtfully. "I have to say, despite your well-meaning plans, Mr. Sark, this still reeks of, for lack of a better word, a clusterfuck."

Sark pursed his lips together and considered the best way to address Delia's statement. The woman was very powerful and if he pissed her off, his earlier state would seem like a vacation in comparison. Meanwhile, Samara frowned and asked, "The Globe has accompanying artifacts? I never heard anything about this."

"That's because whoever told you what you knew about Maura Ayala and the Globe didn't know that," Delia explained. "But what is important now is that I know where they are. And I am willing to forgive your sudden and profound streak of insolence if you can retrieve them for me. I have other pressing matters to which I need to attend, like the issue of Isabelle Flannery and the theft of the Globe from me."

"I would be more than happy to take care of my half sister," Samara offered with no inflection of her voice.

Delia raised an eyebrow. "I don't think Isabelle would be very willing to talk to you, particularly after the scene you made at your mother's funeral. Remember?" she pressed as Samara looked down with her jaw clenched. "I recall it very clearly. I was there." She let the memory hang in the air a moment before speaking again. "No, I'd rather Ms. Reed take care of Isabelle and Agent Bristow as well. If she asks for your assistance, I cannot tell you not to give it."

Samara remained silent, and Sark spoke this time. "We will accept the task you have given us, Ms. Garza," he told her.

Delia gave him a slight nod. "I don't have a complete lack of belief in you," she said to them, "but the odds are against us. The mole we have placed within the CIA is in danger of becoming ineffectual, and various others are working against us in this matter. Especially my former daughter-in-law." _And nieces,_ she added silently, but didn't say it aloud. That was something she'd never reveal to just anyone.

Sark's eyebrows drew together. "Your former daughter-in-law?"

Technically, that was not all she was, but she wasn't going to willingly reveal that either. It was a tangled web, in many ironic ways. "Bridget Gosselin swiped the Globe out from under my nose," Delia replied. "She used the memory of my late stepson to gain entry to my house so she could take it." She paused and looked at Sark and Samara very seriously. "If you encounter her along the way, I want you to kill her. She won't succeed in this scavenger hunt of hers."

[----]

Some time later, Sydney met Mick in Gracia at the last known residence of Bridget Gosselin. The place now belonged to a doctor who worked at Gracia Memorial nearby. As Sydney cut the engine and got out of the car, she appraised the house and wondered what secrets the walls kept. Would this woman give them any clues about a woman as mysterious as Bridget Gosselin Flannery? Or would it be another dead end?

Mick met her at the ground between her car and his navy blue Durango. Today he wore jeans and a white collared shirt that seemed a little dressier than his usual style. Sydney didn't hesitate to tell him so after she was completely briefed on his end of things, and earned a chuckle when he did.

"I'm interested to know that you've taken notice of my fashion sense," Mick said wryly.

"Well, it's hard to miss when you seem to use the same template everyday: jeans, comfortably worn boots, serviceable long-sleeved henley," Sydney rationalized. Before he could comment on that, she asked, "So what's here? How do you expect to find out anything about Bridget Gosselin at this house? The woman who lives here might not have met her before."

"That would be very difficult, Sydney," Mick responded, "as the woman in that house is her niece Jessica Thomas's younger sister Moira-Selene."

Her eyebrows arched. Well, that was very interesting. "Oh? And when were you going to let me on this piece of information?" Sydney inquired as they crossed the yard.

He shot her an impish grin as they climbed the steps to the porch. "Oh, I figured about now would have been the perfect time." Sydney rolled her eyes as he reached forward and intended to ring the doorbell…when the door came open instead. That grin faded as he took in the startled raven-haired woman tightly clutching a duffel bag. Sydney was no rocket scientist, but she'd bet her next month's pay that this green-eyed beauty was Moira-Selene Thomas. So now the question was, where was she going in such a hurry?

Moira-Selene inhaled, trying to collect herself, but did not relax. She still gripped the strap of the duffel as if it were a life raft in a violent storm. "Is there something I can help you with?" she asked evenly.

"Yes, Ms. Thomas, there is," Mick said in a jovial tone. There was no need to agitate Moira-Selene further; someone else had already done that. He brought his shield up for her to examine. "I'm Detective O'Lara with the Gracia Police Department and this is Agent Sydney Bristow from the CIA. We're looking for information on one of your aunts."

Moira-Selene's mouth thinned. "I'd like to know which one and why, Detective O'Lara. Otherwise, I have somewhere to be."

"We're looking for your late father's little sister," Mick replied, watching Moira-Selene's face intently. "Bridget Gosselin." His eyebrows quirked a bit at the flicker in those emerald depths. "But something tells me that you knew that already."

"I haven't seen Bridget in a long time," Moira-Selene told him coolly. "I have no idea where she went or why. I bought the house from her and she disappeared." She shifted the bag on her shoulder and took a step forward. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere I need to be."

Moira-Selene walked down the porch steps and the duo followed. Sydney reached out and touched her arm, planning on appealing to her woman to woman. But as soon as her fingers touched the bare skin on Moira-Selene's forearm, the woman's expression went from irritated surprise to wide-eyed shock. Sydney frowned as Moira-Selene's awed eyes met hers.

"It's you," she murmured.

"What?" Sydney asked in shock. She gripped Moira-Selene's forearms. "What are you talking about?" Moira-Selene swayed, the duffel falling down her shoulder. She whirled away from Sydney, holding her head, and gritted her teeth against some sort of agony as Mick whipped out his cell phone.

"I've…seen you…before…" Moira-Selene managed, rigid with pain. "In visions… You…we…have to go…"

_We…have to go…_ Sydney sucked in a breath, mind racing. She understood one thing: Moira-Selene felt that she—and possibly Sydney and Mick as well—were in danger. Whether Moira-Selene was right or not was not the issue, but getting to a safer environment was.

"Mick, I think we'd better go," Sydney said firmly. "Something's not right here."

Mick turned toward Sydney holding up the barely conscious Moira-Selene with a question on his lips when the shots rang out.

Mick instinctively whipped his head in the direction of the sound and unholstered his gun. Shielding Sydney and Moira-Selene, he had his gun aimed when he heard a gurgling gasp. Trying to keep the car in mind for a moment longer, trying not to look back, he squeezed off two shots in the wake of the speeding car and glimpsed a license plate number that he stored in his mind for later. But all sense of training and protocol and good sense fled his mind when he noticed the blood staining the grass.

And looked in horror at the prone bodies of Moira-Selene Thomas and Sydney Bristow.


	16. Abeyance

**Author's Notes: **_Sorry, everyone! This took way too long, and I'm still not sure if I did it right._

_Why 'Abeyance'? Well, this chapter (probably just like 'Interlude') is like a little breather before the crap hits the fan, because I assure you, in the next chapter it will. Once I finish it._

_I've brought in a new character to tie in Nicole's past to the plot. It's a little strange, but I promise that part will make sense later. _

_Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy! And please don't hesitate to review. _

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen  
**_Abeyance_

As sirens sounded in the distance and got louder with every passing second, Lauren pulled into an alley and made a phone call. Her heart was beating quickly, and she had to take a few calming breaths before the person on the other end picked up.

"Did you complete your mission?" asked the woman on the other end.

"Sydney Bristow has been shot," Lauren replied, tone even. "She is currently out of commission."

"What about Isabelle Flannery?"

"I am moving on to that part now," Lauren assured her caller. "She is still alive, but not for long."

"Get to it, then." With that, the call ended.

Lauren sat in silence as the sirens diminished in volume. She waited a couple of beats before pulling out of the alley and heading south. She had one more person she had to eliminate completely.

[----]

Jack Bristow was rarely ever surprised in his life, particularly in his job, and this was one of those rare times.

Sitting at his desk in the agents' pen at the JTF Building that morning, he had perused the file the CIA had on Jonathan Flannery. His curiosity about Nicole Smith's origins had led him to it. He had learned that Isabelle's late brother was not just merely a detective for the Los Angeles Police Department but a suspected member of an organization known as the Nine. The Nine was suspected of dismantling a medical facility called the Lions' Den over a decade ago. Jack had vaguely recalled hearing about the Den, but he had not known about the CIA's involvement with the Nine or the investigation that had ensued afterward. Not long after, he had found out why: the investigation files had been sealed.

Following a hunch he could not understand, he had scheduled a meeting with Kaneshi Tsukimori, an Eastern Mythology teacher whose name was included in the Jonathan Flannery's file.

They met at Kaminari Academy in Gracia; Kaneshi had picked the spot because he felt that it would put Jack at ease about his intentions. Not to mention, the security was impressive for a private school. Jack found that out when he arrived and was faintly impressed.

The two men talked in an empty conference room. After introductions, Jack asked Kaneshi about the Lions' Den; the tall Japanese man visibly stiffened and looked away.

"That place brings back bad memories," Kaneshi admitted.

"I sensed that from your discomfiture," Jack remarked. "I assume there was a reason why. The CIA files on the Den and your group's involvement are sketchy at best."

A perfectly sculpted eyebrow on Kaneshi's face quirked. "My group?"

"The Nine," Jack prodded.

There was a long pause. Unable to stand, Kaneshi took a seat at the large table. After watching him a moment, Jack mimicked the action.

"No one has ever asked me about that," Kaneshi told Jack truthfully. "I didn't think anyone knew about it." He shook his head, eyes focused upon memories he did not share with Jack. When his eyes sharpened upon the agent, they were cooler. "Might I ask what drove you to research the Lions' Den, Agent Bristow?"

Jack appraised the man opposite him before replying. He figured that truth was the best tool in this situation. He decided that Kaneshi only needed to know enough to ensure his honesty. Anything more at this point would be foolhardy.

"If you must know," Jack began, "I was looking at the file my organization had on Detective Jonathan Flannery. I saw the notation on the Lions' Den and his suspected involvement with the Nine. It intrigued me very much that the CIA knew about the Den, knew about the Nine, but the information was sealed."

Kaneshi nodded thoughtfully, then spoke. "Agent Bristow, the first thing I have to tell you is that the file wasn't sealed to conceal any wrongdoing on Detective Flannery's part. The file was sealed because of the sensitive nature of what we found at the Den."

"So you were a part of the Nine?" Jack's gaze was unwavering, piercing.

Kaneshi met it calmly. "Not in the sense you think I was."

"I'm not sure I understand, Mr. Tsukimori."

Kaneshi shifted forward. "First of all, there were and are not nine members of the Nine." _Not yet anyhow_. Jack opened his mouth to speak, but Kaneshi waved a hand. "But that's not important. What is important was that three young women I was—and still am—close to had been kidnapped and brutally treated. That prompted the invasion and the takedown of the Lions' Den."

"What did you find? What would be so atrocious that the CIA would go through so much trouble to seal the file?"

Kaneshi stared into his eyes for a humming minute before saying, "The girl in your head."

[----]

At Sydney's apartment, Nicole looked at Jamie, mouth gaping open. "What did you say?"

"I said, _I know where the Globe is_," Jamie responded firmly. "That's the whole reason that I risked my ass and yours by coming to Agent Bristow's house like this."

"Well, where is it?" Vaughn wanted to know, in full agent mode. "We have to get a team to wherever it is to retrieve it immediately."

"It's in a castle in Valladolid," Jamie answered. "Palacio de los Vivero. The same one where Ferdinand and Isabella were married in 1469."

Isabelle shared an incredulous look with Vaughn. How _ironic_ that was. "How can that be possible? We were just in Valladolid…"

"Some weeks ago, but still I can see your point," Vaughn pointed out. "So you're telling me that the Globe was close to us when we were there?"

"It hasn't been there all along," Jamie explained. "We had to keep moving it around after we swiped it or it would have been discovered by the wrong people."

"We?" Vaughn picked up on that pronoun use immediately. "Who's 'we'?"

When Jamie went close-mouthed again, Isabelle crossed her arms over her chest. "James Lisandro…"

Jamie sighed. "You're so gonna kick my ass for this. You both are."

"Who. Is. 'We'?" Isabelle and Vaughn demanded in perfect accord.

Jamie spoke in a manner faintly reminiscent of tearing off a sticky Band-Aid. "It was me…and Bridget Gosselin."

And with that he managed to shock everyone into silence for the second time that evening.

[----]

Jack deftly managed to cover his shock with a slight tilt of his head. "Excuse me?"

"The girl in your head," Kaneshi repeated. "She's why the CIA buried the file on the Lions' Den."

Jack stared at Kaneshi for a long moment. And then he gave a short, incredulous chuckle. "Mr. Tsukimori," Jack started, "I find it hard to believe—"

"—That I can read your mind?" Kaneshi finished, making Jack go silent. "Trust me, it's not a particular talent I broadcast." He paused as if listening for something, then sighed. "See, now it's gone. I can only do it in limited cases—more easily with less shielded people, and you, sir, are very hard to read—so rest assured that all of your government secrets are secure."

Jack nodded faintly and decided perhaps Kaneshi's gift was not such a bad thing for him after all. Better to take it in stride. "Well, then, I suppose that means I don't have to take out the time to explain myself about the young woman about whom I am seeking information."

"Yes, there is no need to waste time," Kaneshi agreed. When he began speaking again, his expression and tone were solemn. "Agent Bristow, she was only eleven when we found her ten years ago. And she wasn't the only minor child we found. There had been dozens of kids in that hellhole, and there were even more records of those who had been…" Overcome with emotion, he paused to collect himself. He didn't finish the sentence, but his implication had been clear. "She had been at the middle of the testing, subjected to degrading, invasive, and often merciless treatment. When we found her, she was weak and easily frightened with little of the spunk she has today."

Jack recalled his conversation with Isabelle. At least some of the mystery had been solved. "What was she being tested for?"

Kaneshi responded, "That is a little harder to explain. Do you know about a group called the Fellowship of the Goddess?" When Jack indicated that he didn't, Kaneshi continued. "It's a group of enthusiasts who believe in the existence of Maura Ruiz de Ayala, the supposed wife of Milo Rambaldi."

It was Jack's turn to frown. It was just his luck that Rambaldi would make a guest appearance during this interview of sorts. Even more unsettling was that what Kaneshi was asserting was even more outlandish. There was no documentation, no evidence that Milo Rambaldi had a spouse. Kaneshi didn't look shocked when Jack said that exact statement.

"It's not something many people believe," Kaneshi said. "I'm not exactly a big believer in all the hype myself, but the draw is unmistakable for them. The long and short of it is, the group of doctors and scientists at the Den believed in her. Ayala reportedly had written a document—in a Rambaldi-crafted code, they say—about the concept of a being called a _Kamicatalyst_—_Kami_ of course coming from the Japanese, meaning _god_. They tested those children to find one."

When Kaneshi's sentence dropped off meaningfully, Jack supposed he knew at what Kaneshi was getting. "I assume the young woman in question was determined to be a so-called Kamicatalyst." Kaneshi confirmed this with a nod. "What are the attributes of such a being?"

"A Kamicatalyst is a powerful facilitator. He—or she—can awaken dormant abilities and tendencies in people and sometimes without trying. Sometimes this has adverse effects if the person has latent tendencies that are…let's just say, immoral. But even more than that, a Kamicatalyst, one that's strong enough, can—"

At that moment, Kaneshi's cell phone rang. He opened his mouth to apologize at Jack's reproachful look when Jack's phone sounded as well. Jack had the grace to look dismayed.

"Do you believe in coincidences, Agent Bristow?" Kaneshi inquired idly.

"There is no such thing as a coincidence," Jack said simply before rising and turning away to answer his own phone call. "This is Jack."

A few moments later, the blood drained from his face.

The news that he had received was of the worst kind, the sort a father never wants to hear. _Your daughter has been shot. _But he knew that he couldn't afford to allow the emotions that were churning inside of him to show.

When he turned around to face Kaneshi again, prepared to speak, he found that grief and disbelief mirrored in the Japanese man's dark brown eyes. His phone, still open, was gripped idly in one hand and his mouth was parted.

"It seems we have both gotten some bad news," Kaneshi said quietly after the pause.

"You will have to excuse me, Mr. Tsukimori," Jack said.

Kaneshi merely nodded, saying nothing. Jack strode out of the room, his anxiety leaving a heavy cloud of tangible emotion behind him. Despite the tragedy that had been dealt the both of them, he couldn't suppress the thought that he was not done with Agent Jack Bristow. Not by a long shot.

[----]

The buzzing of Vaughn's cell axed through the silence and broke stupefaction to pieces. Isabelle released the breath that she had been holding as Vaughn opened his phone and greeted the other person on the other end.

Isabelle glared at Jamie. "You mean to tell me that you've been in contact with Bridget all this time and you never told me?" she demanded.

"She told me not to tell you until it was the right time," Jamie responded. "She told me that it was best that way. She didn't want to call attention to you or herself by suddenly associating with you."

Nicole cocked an eyebrow at him. "Now what the hell kinda logic is that?"

"It's the kinda logic that doesn't get a cap busted in your ass by an international terrorist organization, that's what," Jamie snapped back. He turned to Isabelle. "Don't you think, Isabelle?"

_Pause._ Isabelle wasn't listening. Her face had gone slack. She was staring intently at Vaughn, who had turned away slightly. Nicole opened her mouth to speak, but Isabelle brushed past her and Jamie hastily. She went up to Vaughn and placed her hand on his shoulder which, now that they looked carefully, Nicole and Jamie noticed was eerily slumped.

"Michael?" Isabelle took him by the shoulders when he didn't answer. "Michael—what the hell is going on?"

Vaughn raised his head, and Isabelle was assaulted by a wave of dread. She had seen that same look in his eyes before, nearly seven years ago when another tragedy had rocked them both.

"It's Sydney," Vaughn said, voice thick with emotion. "She's been shot."

_Pause._

"What?!" Nicole burst out, brown eyes huge.

"Holy shit," was all Jamie could contribute.

Isabelle tried to exhale but found that it was difficult and nearly choked on the lump in her throat. She pressed the heel of her hand into her chest to ease the discomfort as her eyes watered. "Oh God—Sydney—"

"I'm putting you in the safe house," Vaughn continued thickly. "It's the only way I know the same thing won't happen to you."

As tears of grief and frustration welled up inside of her, Isabelle shoved at him, prompting him to grab her tightly. It bore a strange resemblance to the scene that had ensued several minutes earlier between Jamie and Nicole, who were subdued now. Nicole watched them for a moment, then left the room.

"I want to be by Sydney's side," Isabelle said firmly, "and I will be. I don't give a damn what you say."

"You have no right acting like she means the world to you," Vaughn spat bitterly, shocking the hell out of her. "You have no right, Isabelle. You've known her barely a month—"

"Time means nothing, Michael." She fixed him with a hard, meaningful stare. "You should know that better than anyone. It could be a month or a million months, but my feelings will still be the same." She softened a touch. "Just like yours."

Vaughn looked at her wordlessly, a plethora of intense emotions flashing in his eyes.

Isabelle kept her eyes on him, but her tone was gentle. "You still love her. You always have."

He looked away and said nothing.

"It's not a weakness, Michael, or a disease. It just is. Don't be ashamed of it."

"What do you want me to say?" Vaughn burst out suddenly. "Do you want me to say that I love Sydney with all my heart and soul and that I would love to find the person that pulled the trigger so I could kill them with my bare hands? Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Isabelle gazed at him calmly. "You said it, not me."

Vaughn looked as if he wanted to throttle Isabelle at that moment. Before he could say another word, a small voice came from the doorway.

"Daddy? Mami?"

Isabelle stepped away from Vaughn and turned as Sophie spoke from the doorway, flanked by Nicole. The emotion shimmering in Sophie's eyes gave her parents pause.

"Fee-Fee," Isabelle began.

"Are we going to see Auntie Sydney?" Sophie inquired.

Silence descended upon them again. Isabelle turned to Vaughn and waited for his answer.

"Sophie, _mon chere_," Vaughn started in a tone that was meant to placate. "You and Mami—"

"—Are going to see Auntie Sydney at the hospital, right Daddy?" Sophie's tone indicated that she was not soothed by Vaughn's tone.

Vaughn's eyes flickered momentarily up to Nicole, who eyed him coolly. Yeah, Nicole knew what she was doing. She knew that Vaughn would never deny Sophie anything, even the moon or the stars.

"We'll be safer at the hospital," Nicole pointed out. "Chances are CIA will be all over the place making sure nothing else happens. You will know where we are, and if something were to go down…"

Vaughn exhaled. "This is crazy."

Nicole shifted and crossed her arms over her chest. "You know what's crazy? Going out in the rain with nothing on your head but a new perm. _That's_ crazy. This is love, Vaughn."

[----]

Flashes of light. Blurry images and disjointed language swirling around her. That was all Sydney could recall whenever she looked back on the moments between her and Moira-Selene Thomas getting shot and her waking up at the hospital.

Then there was the dream in the middle of it all.

[----]

_The all-consuming whiteness dimmed into a sea of delicate pink before her eyes. Her vision sharpened, and she could see the branches and trunks of trees amid the blush. She recognized the blooms drifting to the ground as cherry blossoms. A little enthralled, she followed one on its path from sky to ground._

_Her gaze fell to her feet and she saw that she wore loafers and pristine white socks folded over to her ankle. Her legs were bare between the socks and the hem of a pleated skirt of black, silver, and purple plaid that fell above the knee. Frowning, she raised her arms slightly and touched the material of the royal purple blazer that covered them. _

_The sound of laughter broke her from her self-examination; she looked up and spied an Asian girl chatting mirthfully with a blonde with short, spiky hair. As she turned, she noticed a few others in clusters or alone. They wore the same uniform she wore with various changes in footwear and other amendments due to gender. No one came up to her; they seemed to be in their own world, which suited her just fine because she'd rather be in her own world._

What the hell is going on?_ she mused. _And why am I dressed like I'm a private school student in some Japanese cartoon?

"_Sydney?"_

_As if on cue in a larger scale production, Sydney turned and found someone familiar. "Moira-Selene," she said simply. _

_Moira-Selene clasped her hands together in front of her own dream-issue plaid skirt. She looked a little sad, and Sydney found that she could hardly blame her. "I wish it hadn't come to this," she admitted._

_Sydney felt her heart rise through her throat at the tone of Moira-Selene's voice. "Am I dead? Are we both dead?"_

_Moira-Selene shook her head and that calmed her a bit. "We are currently in the dream realm. Neither one of us has regained consciousness yet, so we are sort of in abeyance."_

_Her eyebrows came together as the obvious question came from her lips: "Why here? Why is it so important that we meet?"_

"_Because I am going to tell you the truth," Moira-Selene responded. Then she added meaningfully, "Cousin."_


End file.
